The Scorpion Ring
by thegoofybookworm
Summary: [Previously "Unchanged"] Aside from being short-tempered, arrogant, and as friendly as a Hungarian Horntail, Draco has been diagnosed as promiscuous. He finds out the reason behind his personality, and is horrified enough to seek help from Hermione Granger. She knows more than anyone how Veelas behave. Why, then, is she still so drawn to him? Rated T for author paranoia...
1. Blindsided

Draco rolled over to the side of the bed, trying desperately to not breathe as loud as he needed to in order to catch his breath once more. He ran a hand through his damp blond hair, catching a whiff of himself and thinking guiltily, _Yes, I do need a shower about now._ On the other side of the large, emerald bed, lay Dr. Flaura Dilgens, PhD, in an equally tired manner. Her dark red hair laid spread out around her head, framing it in a way that reminded Draco of the textbook pictures of Dementor victims. He snickered quietly at the comparison; however even in his silence he caused a slight disturbance to his companion, who sat up immediately.

"Oh…oh, no…" she muttered to herself remorsefully, fumbling through the bed sheets for her scattered clothes. In the midst of it all, she pulled out her pink blouse triumphantly, tugging it over her head as Draco rested his own back on his folded arms. "Mr. Malfoy…I'm so sorry…" she continued mumbling as she slipped into her black pumps and clipped her earrings back on. "I must suggest that you see another therapist, sir."

Draco let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "After last night, are you still going to refer to me as 'sir', _Flaura_?" he asked teasingly, purposely using her first name.

She stiffened, her back towards him as she slowly clasped the buckle on her shoe. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Last night should not have taken place, you and I both know that."

He watched her with a small smirk on his lips as she twisted her frenzied hair into a bun. She carefully slipped her headband onto her curls, then reached over to the night table for her purse. She snuck a quick look over her shoulder, at the muscular, shirtless blond man who still lay tangled in the covers, before quickly bowing at him and leaving the bedroom.

Mere moments after Flaura had shut the door behind her, there was a small, almost intimidated knock on the rich mahogany, nearly too muffled by Draco's mental turmoil for him to hear. Luckily, he'd been taking one deep, shaky breath to clear his head, and had let it out just in time to notice it. "Enter," he called out carelessly, not worried about any of his old enemies showing up in the manor. _Let them come,_ he thought to himself, though he knew well that they would not show up.

Dipp, his short, shabby-looking house elf with large green eyes and a small, pointed nose, walked through the doorway, trembling, with his hands behind his back. "M-master? Your—your guest, she j-just left." Draco's eyes burst open and he glared at Dipp, whom he knew to have another reason to enter his room. Dipp bowed his head, scared, and withdrew his hands from behind. In them, he held an official-looking letter with the very prominent St. Mungo's psychological department seal stamped on its front. "Master has just been owled," Dipp told him, sounding much more confident as he handed over the envelope. Draco stared at it, unsure as to how to react. "The owl would not leave Dipp alone, Master, Dipp had to…" His eyes became shiny with unshed tears as he mumbled, "Had to tip him, Master, gave him a mouse, because Master dislikes mice. Please Master, do not be furious, Dipp meant no harm…"

"I'm not mad," Draco groaned, used to Dipp's incessant apologies over the smallest of matters. Truthfully, Draco was glad to have found a way of getting rid of the stray mice in the manor. His pet snake had died weeks ago, and he hadn't known what to do anymore. "You may go now, Dipp." With a quick reverent bow, Dipp was gone from the room.

Draco stared at the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It was from Iris Bogham, his therapist from the previous week. He smiled to himself as he remembered the sight of her leaving just as urgently as Flaura had done just now, but then his eyes found the paper once more. He dug through the cabinets for a letter opener and sliced off the top of his envelope, hands trembling ever so slightly as he pulled out the two pieces of parchment contained within. One was in the loopy, girly handwriting of Iris, while the other one was in official typewriter print, courtesy, no doubt, of the laboratories, for the tests Iris had asked him to do.

_Mr. Draco Malfoy,_ Iris's letter began. He smirked at the formal addressing.

_As you'll remember, we at the psychology department in St. Mungo's have asked you to undergo several tests and screenings pertaining to your previous diagnosis. The test results, which were promised to us to be delivered within a fortnight, have finally been printed, and enclosed in this envelope there is an exact copy of the original. You may have a look at them now, if you wish. _

_One of these results is from a blood test. This is the result that is most urgent to your person, as we will need to schedule another appointment with you as soon as possible. Please owl a response by this upcoming Thursday stating the time and date of your preference. Sorry for the inconvenience, and contact Dr. Walter Ignatius if you have any further questions about your diagnosis._

_Best wishes, _

_Dr. Iris Bogham, PhD_

_St. Mungo's Psychological Department, _

_London, England _

Now Draco was positively disturbed. Why schedule another appointment? Had he, by any chance, contracted some severe disease during one of his expeditions? _Bloody Merlin,_ he swore to himself as, with even shakier fingers, he unfolded the second paper, _if it's transmittable through sex, I'd sue all the bloody therapists in St. Mungo's!_

He glanced at the test results, skipping over all the ones that basically reassured him that he was healthy, letting his eyes rest on the blood test results. He scanned them quickly, then in disbelief reviewed them once more. He felt all the blood vanish from his face as the trembling in his hands duplicated, then tripled. "No…no…" he muttered to himself, throwing the paper away from him as if it had caught on fire. He looked around, panicking, as if he hoped that someone would jump out from behind a large piece of furniture and shout, "_Kidding_!" Alas, that never happened.

He could feel his heartbeat quickening, his blood on the verge of boiling through his veins, and he did the only thing he could think of.

"_DIPP!_" he roared, feeling his hands get hot. "_GET ME BLAISE!_"

. . . .

"Bloody promiscuous!" Blaise Zabini let out a long, heartfelt laugh at this point. Draco flicked his wrist in Blaise's direction, causing his nose to lengthen well past seven inches. Blaise rolled his eyes and muttered an unkind suggestion to what Draco should do with his wand, then continued skimming through the test results. "Short-tempered, arrogant, no surprise there…Show-off, know-it-all, as friendly as a Hungarian Horntail—"

"That wasn't on the paper!" Draco protested, setting down his glass of scotch forcefully on the table.

Blaise grinned back at him. "Ah, so you _are_ listening. Anyway, mate, these seem to be accurate descriptions of your persona," he told Draco as he read the second page of the results. "I don't see what you'd get so riled—wait a second." He lowered the paper, his eyes widening in disbelief at his best mate. "Draco…this says you're part…part…"

"Veela," Draco spat out in disgust, then immediately wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He then seemed to remember that he'd been drinking scotch, and grimaced at the honey-colored stains now on the white of one of his formal button-down shirts. "Bloody hell, Blaise, what am I going to do?"

"Learn about Veelas, always a good place to start," Blaise told him with a hint of his snarky, trademark smirk. Still, his eyes remained fearful, nervous for his friend.

Draco threw open a cabinet that Blaise hadn't noticed before, or maybe it had just appeared. At any rate, it was filled to the brim with Veela books, from _1001 Famous Celebrities You'd Never Guess Are Veelas!_ to _Veela: An Enchanted Life_. "Yes, thank you, Blaise. I got that part covered."

"Oh, hold on," Blaise looked at Draco in sudden realization, then down at the results. "Draco…your promiscuity—"

"I know," Draco answered, interrupting his friend. He'd seen the link too, seconds after he'd sent Dipp after Blaise. He searched through the cabinet, finally withdrawing a book titled, _Enchanted by a Veela_, the first one he'd read after he found out about his…condition. He flipped it open to the page he'd been dissecting so thoroughly for the past hour. "Look here, it says, '_Veelas have an undeniable attraction that draws the attention of many eligible mates.'_"

Blaise groaned, throwing his head back. "Merlin's beard, Draco, this is serious! Stop boasting your"—he raised his fingers in air quotes—"_charms_. Is there a point to this at all?"

"There _is_, actually!" Draco snapped, turning the page. He continued to read from the text. "'_Unlike many other species, Veelas do not mate for life. A female Veela, the predominant gender of this species, will have as many as thirty mates in a single year, whereas the amount of mates for a male Veela may double. Veelas, due to their charms and depleting population, seek to procreate whenever possible. The more they reproduce, the more their charms are enhanced._'"

"Draco, you whore," Blaise called at him from across the room. Draco snapped back to reality, shutting the book in the process, and realized he'd been pacing. "Sixty a year? Mate, I _wish_ I were a bloody Veela!"

Draco shook his head, absentmindedly running his hand through his ruffled hair. Once again, he was reminded that he should shower, _if I'm to charm the pants off sixty girls a year,_ he thought. "No, I don't think that's right. I'm only half Veela, according to the doctors," he reasoned, sitting back down in his seat. He tossed the book aside, and looked up at his friend. "What do I do?"

"I'd schedule that meeting at St. Mungo's," Blaise answered as he tapped his enlarged nose with the tip of his wand, honestly trying to figure out a solution for Draco. He hesitated before saying, "Also, I'd contact the Department for the Regulation and—"

"The _Ministry_?" demanded Draco, enraged. "Are you _mad_? Have you forgotten, conveniently, who my father was? They'll cheerfully send me to Azkaban!"

"Now, Draco, being a Veela is hardly a reason for imprisonment," Blaise tried to reason, cowering in alarm at the slight smoke being emitted from his friend's hands. He went through all the Veela information he'd ever learned, only recalling at the last second their nasty habit of shooting fire from their hands when angered. He tactfully decided not to mention this to an already furious Draco. "But, I mean, if you don't want to…"

"No, no, I'm sorry," Draco sighed submissively, his hands extinguished along with his anger—much to Blaise's relief. "You're right. They have no reason to send me to Azkaban now. I'll send an owl to Iris and her lot, and then I'll set up a meeting with whoever's in charge of magical creatures at the Ministry."

"Good thinking," Blaise nodded approvingly, picking up a book and flipping through it, not really reading. "Merlin, Draco…So all that shit about you being a pure-blooded prat was for nothing?"

Draco raised a finger at Blaise warningly. "Don't," he growled, but Blaise continued anyway as if he hadn't heard him at all.

"Malfoy, a bloody half-blood," Blaise mused, smiling to himself. "Never in a million years…"

"Drop it!" Draco shouted, picking up a book and searching through it for more information about himself. Honestly, he felt kind of ridiculous, researching his own species. Of course, he'd read about human history and all, but he'd never had to read about what happened when a human became hungry—he just knew! In retrospect, he probably did know what happened when a Veela was hungry, but had most likely dismissed it as typical human behavior. From the corner of his eye, he saw Blaise raise his hands in mock defeat, and snorted to himself.

Suddenly, Blaise put his books to the side. Draco noticed and looked up, worried that his friend was already leaving. "I'm sorry, mate," Blaise apologized, standing up and outstretching his arm to shake Draco's hand, "but you know how the wife can be."

Maybe it was the way Blaise didn't say her name, or the look on his face—utter annoyance—but Draco couldn't help but laugh, yet at the same time pity the girl. "If you don't like her, Blaise, honestly…" he began, the conversation one of many about the same topic.

Again, Blaise shook his head as if the notion was too ridiculous to consider. "I love Pansy as much as you do, but the thing is, I'm with her for Elliott, nothing more. It's just…" He ran a hand over his dark face, trying to think of the right way to phrase it. "It's frustrating to not be able to be with other girls because I'm with someone, but I don't want to be with her. Know what I mean?"

Draco hesitated before shaking his head. He knew he was coming off as snarky, but he genuinely had no idea what Blaise meant or was feeling. Blaise took this in a different way, laughing lightly. "Son of a bitch, Draco Malfoy," he told him in lieu of an apology, grabbing his coat off the hanger and making his way to the front door.

"And I would continue _seeing_ therapists, if I were you!" he called out from behind the door. "I'm not convinced that you aren't insane as well as a half-blood."

The bitter sting of smoke reached him as he laughed, knowing fully well what had just happened to the manor's door.

* * *

Hermione twirled her quill between her thumb and her forefinger, tapping it occasionally on her cheek as she listened to Apolline Delacour. Beside her immediate workspace stood several scrolls, used and unused, some so worn that they felt perfectly smooth under her touch. She glanced down at the piece of parchment before her, but thus far Mrs. Delacour had not said anything worth writing down. To her other side were books, many books on a variety of species that are capable of mating with wizards.

"…married to this day," Mrs. Delacour finished at last with a flourish, smiling at Hermione winningly. She leaned forward, looking at the blank piece of parchment with a raised eyebrow. "Does zat help?" she inquired, curious as to why the young woman before her hadn't written down a word. "Why is nozing written down?"

"I have an excellent memory, Mrs. Delacour," Hermione lied, setting down her quill as she rose to escort Mrs. Delacour out of the office. "Your input, of course, is appreciated. I will owl if I have further questions." She curtsied before the woman, who seemed pleased with this gesture.

"Yes, please, owl away!" Mrs. Delacour agreed, gliding away as if she were flying, gracefully at that. Once the intoxicating Veela aroma was out of the office, Hermione let out a long-held breath, grateful once more for clean air. Though the smell drew the attention of males, Hermione found it disturbing, especially in such a small, enclosed space.

She shut the door behind her and returned to her chair behind the desk, her head in her hands. This book was taking far too long to write! Yes, she'd known the complications that arose with being an author, especially one on magical beings, but she'd never expected it to be this difficult. The only person that she knew would give the much-needed information was about as useless as her wall at that point!

She quietly flipped through the pages she'd already written in. _Centaurs, Nymphs, _and other names of magical creatures stood out to her in each chapter's title, until she came across _Veelas_, the only chapter that remained blank. Even after eight and a half months of travelling widely to interview many half-bloods, she still could not find a half-blooded Veela that spoke English, and was young and smart enough to travel to London with her so she could gather her information. _Over two thirds of my free year, gone!_ she thought, frustrated as she began to put away her materials.

Suddenly, there was a knock on her door. She rolled her eyes silently, annoyed by the fact that she was the only person obeying the rules of absence leaves. They were not supposed to bother her until next January! Nevertheless, she rose to open the door, seeing as her secretary had decided to take the year off as well, Merlin knew she didn't need it.

"I'll have you know, this is my vacation ti—oh, hello Wolbecker!" she said in surprise, startled. A short, pudgy, slightly balding man in his late thirties or early forties stood outside the door, hand frozen in the air mid-knock, as if he hadn't quite believed that she'd open up so easily.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Granger," he wheezed out in his notoriously raspy voice, letting his hand drop to his side. He seemed to have an inner turmoil before he finally pulled out a folder from behind his back, clutched securely in his other hand. Unlike most folders Hermione had been given in the past, this one was only bulging slightly, obviously lacking some papers.

At once, she shook her head. "Mr. Wolbecker, you know that it is my time off! Surely I'm not expected to attend to this?" she asked, a bit scandalized that they'd so blatantly disregard her vacation.

Wolbecker smiled at this. "Oh, Ms. Granger, I'm afraid you do not understand," he answered with ease, having expected the rejection. "We would not be asking this of you if it wasn't important. As it is, this is a very…particular client, in need of counseling. We believe that he is in your area of expertise."

"And what area would that be?" asked Hermione, defiantly raising her chin. Her mind was on the fast track right away, trying to guess what it was. House elf, it had to be a house elf…a half-blood, should she be lucky…

"A half blood," Wolbecker informed her, a small smirk playing on his lips. Hermione hopefully waited for the bit where he added the fact that it would be a half-blooded elf, but to her disappointment (she wasn't even sure those existed) he said nothing more. Her eyes began to roam the room, searching for the telltale ball that was sure to be stuck somewhere.

"I've gathered a lot of information for my book, Mr. Wolbecker. The thought is appreciated, but the fact remains that this is my year off and I'm not going to work," she said finally, with an air of determination she'd previously reserved for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s during her school years. Although in her mind she'd already settled the matter, her eyes still darted across the room, searching.

"But, Ms. Granger," protested Wolbecker once more, not looking alarmed in the least—in fact, once more he seemed like this was precisely what he was expecting—"we are fairly certain that you need this particular specimen. You see, the half blood in question is half wizard, half—"

Hermione was only paying him slight attention, finally having set her sights on the little spy in her room. As Wolbecker spoke, she walked across the room to her beloved bookshelves and a framed cut-out of an ancient _Daily Prophet_. She reached over the shelf and pulled out the spy, holding it out to Wolbecker and interrupting him midsentence. "A Mad Eye, Wolbecker?" she demanded, delicately showing him the magical eyeball that was now so popular for security measures in the wizarding world. This one was slightly smaller than the original one that Mad-Eye Moody was known for, but Hermione guessed it was for means of espionage. "I thought the Ministry trusted me more than this."

"—Veela," Wolbecker finished at length, staring at the eyeball. His face had contorted finally as Hermione startled him with her observation. The Ministry had hidden it so well, but they had not been able to place a concealment charm upon it due to the office's anti-magic nature. Hermione had asked the room to be personalized, reminiscent of her parents' Muggle offices, and so it was not possible to perform magic within. "Ms. Granger, the Ministry needs a way of keeping track of you during your year off."

This was obviously, he realized once he let it slip out of his mouth, the worst thing to say. She ran to her bag and shook it, with a loud rattle coming out of it. Among the books and stray, scattered belongings that fell out, was an even smaller Mad Eye, barely larger than her fingernail. "You are _unbelievable_," she snarled at him, taking both spies and placing them in a small musical box.

"Ms. Granger, your actions during the war—" he began, trying to placate her. He'd heard of what she was capable of, of the reasons why she'd been placed under observation, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be upset near him.

"Are behind me," she finished off for him, resuming her seat behind the busy desk. "You can't afford to not trust me, Mr. Wolbecker. Now, if there's nothing more you'd like to say…" Her voice trailed off as she glared at him uncertainly, daring him to go on.

But Wolbecker was a man on a mission, and the client in question would avada him in a heartbeat should he not find him a proper magical counselor. So he persisted, "There is, Ms. Granger. This client…well, he is demanding, to say the least. But I would not ask this of you on your year off if you did not gain any benefit from it."

"I would be able to interview him," Hermione thought out loud, trying to picture it. She could counsel him; while at the same time gain valuable information. This offer seemed almost too good to be true. She glanced down at the velvet red folder in Wolbecker's arms. "Would the Ministry pay me for this?" Wolbecker nodded; still she was unsure. "And would I be given an extra four months to compensate for this time?"

"Naturally," Wolbecker grunted unwillingly. He'd known it would be too much to hope for that she didn't ask about that, but he still didn't want to deal with that. She was a valuable asset in the new department she'd established within the Ministry, the department of Relations and Counseling for Magical Beings, and as secretary of the Beings branch of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures he was unsure of letting her take more vacation time. Still, he knew it was only fair, because of what he was asking from her.

She grudgingly took the folder from him and lay it before her, running her hand absently over the cover. _UNREGISTERED_, it read in black ink on the front. She put her thumb under the fold, ready to open it, when she smelled a strange odor…cinnamon…being emitted from the book. Once more she left rage bubble up from within as she stared icily at Wolbecker. "Very good, Mr. Wolbecker. An enchanted folder, I presume?"

He cringed as she tapped her fingers impatiently on her desk, waiting for an answer. He had definitely not been expecting this; the folder had been under a charm to conceal the giveaway smell of the Unbreakable Vow. It was practically an illegal enchantment to place on an inanimate object, but he'd been warned that Hermione might back out once she read into the details of the job. She was the only counselor in the Ministry, and very valuable anyway. "Yes, Ms. Granger. As soon as you—"

"Open the folder, I will be forced to counsel the client until he feels satisfied," Hermione interrupted, sounding extremely bored. "Yes, thank you for the explanation, but I know the nature of these charms. Well," she sighed, to his extreme relief, as once more her thumb fell into place to open the cover, "you've already wasted my day. I might as well just take the job."

"Thank you, Ms. Granger, and you may—" Wolbecker jumped in, excited that she'd agreed to it so peacefully. His boss would be only too pleased!

"You can leave," Hermione said dismissively, cutting him off as she pointed towards the door. After a deal of muttered goodbyes and thank yous and apologies, Wolbecker was gone. She looked back down at the folder, not feeling at all confident as to whether or not she'd be up for the task.

_Well_, she thought to herself, _here goes nothing. _As she forced it open—because the enchantment made the choice rather difficult by binding the book more tightly together—she realized the horror of the situation.

And she could barely contain a gasp as a pair of cold, silver eyes stared up at her from the picture.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Cliffy! Edited, because I can't stand short chapters so I've combined chapters 1 and 2. I'll try to keep the other chapters as long as this! Anyway I'm not sure... should I continue this story? Well just review and I'll see.. (: **

**Love,**

**TGBW**


	2. Magic Indeed

"Ms. Granger, your eleven thirty is here!" called Hannah Xavier, Hermione's secretary, from just outside the door.

Hermione groaned in her mind as she replied, "Come in," readying herself for the encounter. She'd been told by Wolbecker that Draco had no idea she would be his counselor, and had been assured that if Draco was wholeheartedly opposed to the arrangement then she'd be liberated from the Vow. Until then, however, the spell was binding, and so she'd had to throw together all her background information on the Malfoy as well as on half-blooded Veelas—which, obviously, was hardly a suitable amount of data.

The Golden Trio, after they'd been disbanded, had not heard from Draco, Blaise, or Pansy, in the eight years since the war. To their knowledge, Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to life plus forty in Azkaban; Bellatrix Lestrange—for foul murder and the use of all three Unforgivables on a variety of victims—had been given the Dementor's Kiss; and Narcissa, who now went by Black for disassociation, had gone away from London and from all the memories, leaving the manor to Draco, their only son. As far as Draco Malfoy had been concerned, however, nobody knew of him. Of course, if he'd been murdered, kidnapped, tortured, or imprisoned, word would have gotten out; however he was not employed, at least publicly, and had managed to avoid the media for the past eight years.

Because of the blatant lack of information, Hermione had no idea what to expect. Had he aged terribly because of the war and of exclusion from society? Or was he still the young, striking man he'd been before his father's downfall? The question that forced itself to the front of her mind, naturally, was this: How would he react to being counseled by a Muggle-born? Was his newfound identity enough to make him change his opinion? Was the war enough? Was he still discriminatory, even after all he'd been put through?

The door opened, and Hermione instantly forged a barrier around her mind, fully aware that Draco may have learned Legilimency from Snape during his time at Hogwarts. A tall, skinny man entered, with white blond hair that was cropped short and gelled back, and a dark gray suit that fit him perfectly. From behind, he seemed like a fancy, wealthy businessman. As he came closer to the desk, she saw another side of him, a side that could only be described as broken. His eyes, still the same shade of gray they had always been, now seemed hollow, as if nothing but a ghost remained behind them. Underneath his eyes were dark bags that signaled many nights of lost sleep. He fidgeted no more than she did, but she could tell he was anxious. Finally he spoke, in a raspy undertone she almost missed.

"Granger."

Seeing him, she'd expected his voice to have lost the coldness she'd become used to years ago, to have adopted humility or, at the very least, normalcy. Still, she was greeted with the same growl he used on all his lesser acquaintances. She decided that, being adults both of them, it was time to stop acting like children, even if it meant one-sided formalities.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," she answered him politely, nodding her head and gesturing to the chair. Oh, if Ron and Harry saw her now! No, never mind that—if they saw _him_ now! A half-blood, and a Veela, no less! "Please, take a seat."

"Chair's too shabby," Draco complained, wrinkling his nose. With an amused expression and rather immature singsong chants in her head, Hermione watched as he pulled his wand from an inner pocket of his jacket and pointed it at a spot by the 'shabby' chair. He muttered an enchantment once, twice, but nothing appeared. He glared at Hermione. "What the hell?"

She bit her tongue to keep herself from laughing out loud; could he really be that dimwitted? Even if she hadn't charmed her room to be anti-magic, as ironic as that seemed, did he really believe that she would let him walk into her office with a wand and not take any protective measures? "You can't do magic in my office," she informed him, smirking against her will.

He rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Oh. But of _course_," he said sarcastically, plopping down onto the chair. It was not nearly as shabby as he made it out to be, but it belonged to Hermione Granger and he'd be damned if he admitted to liking it. Instead, he made overly exaggerated movements to try and get comfortable. "Counseled by a Mudblood," he muttered under his breath, but the office was silent enough for Hermione to just catch it. "Wait till my father hears—"

"Whether or not your father hears about this, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione interrupted him calmly, trying to control the pang of irritation she felt at the use of the dirty slur, "is really of no consequence to me. Of course, if you'd rather speak to someone else, you need only ask." She added the last part hopefully, expecting him to jump at the offer. Only a heartbeat later did she remember her benefit from the arrangement. So, she said as an afterthought, "But I doubt anyone else would be as particularly keen as I am on keeping your heredity a secret from a few hundred galleons."

She knew he would have to stay with her because of that. He needed counseling just as desperately as she needed the information, and knew that anyone else that found out that Draco Malfoy was a half blood would be only too willing to give his secret to a meddling reporter for such a high price. On the other side of the desk, Draco sat back in his chair, slumped with defeat. Merlin knew why Hermione seemed so eager to treat him, but he was absolutely certain that she was right. Going to anyone else would be like confessing to the _Daily Prophet_ that he wasn't a pureblooded wizard, and that was not a risk he was yet willing to take.

"Okay," he said finally, halfheartedly. In all honestly, he did not feel like doing this at all, but he knew he had to. Blaise had shown up at his manor, offering to accompany him to the Ministry. Like the proper Slytherin he was. _Making sure I don't weasel out of it, more like,_ Draco snarled in his thoughts. "I don't see why I have to be here," he complained out loud, his glare focusing on a spot by her quill. "_Magical _creatures. I'm not a magical creature, I am a wizard!"

Hermione looked up, a surprised expression across her face. "But I thought you made this arrangement?" she asked, extremely confused. Wolbecker had made it seem urgent to Draco to make this appointment!

Draco snorted in false humor, amused by her dimwittedness. _Yes,_ he thought sarcastically, _there is nothing I would love more than to have to come to Granger's office thrice a week to talk about the biggest fraud in history_. Even in his mind, he knew he was being a tad overdramatic, but he felt like those were the words that came the closest to describing how he felt about the whole situation. He said, "It was Blaise. He thought it would be absolutely brilliant to bring me to a bloody shrink."

"I am not a _shrink_," Hermione snapped, irritated by Draco's sudden change of attitude. Well, not too sudden. It was more as if they'd gone back in time, back to his snarky tone and smirks.

"And _I_," Draco almost shouted, raising his voice in protest noticeably, "am _not_ to be ordered around like a bloody _house elf_!"

This was, for some reason unknown to his person, the worst thing possible he could have said. He thought that as he watched her face contort in anger, a violent blush sweeping over her and making her face turn pink. "It so happens," she hissed with a chillingly calm, cold voice, "that a certain house elf named Dobby saved my life from the savages you associated with. He," she now shouted, matching his tone of voice, "was ten times the man you _never_ were!"

Draco's eyes were so wide; Hermione thought they were about to pop out of his head! He had never seen such an outburst from the bookworm, and now that he'd been exposed to the fullest extent of her anger, he realized that her slap in third year was merely a small fragment of her wrath. He waited for the echo of her voice to finish reverberating through the office until he sat down, realizing only then that he'd stood up in the midst of his own outburst. "This is preposterous," he snapped, trying to cover up for his moment of cowardice. Rather, moments. He knew not exactly what had gone on the night Dobby saved Hermione's life, as he'd rather not know; however he'd heard that the treacherous little elf _had_ Disapparated them elsewhere, much to his own hidden, well-masked relief, and though he was expected to depreciate him either way, he felt humbled by Hermione's comparison. He was careful, however, to not let any of this show. "I will not argue about this with a…" His voice trailed off as he realized that finishing that sentence would be the worst thing he could to at that moment.

"Go on!" Hermione retorted, eyes bulging. "Say it! _Mudblood_, I am, yeah?" As she said it, he noticed immediately the way she relaxed back into her seat, calming down after all her anger had been let out like venom. "You should have been there, Draco," she whispered, eyes downcast onto the desk now. She did not think much of her using his first name. In fact, she did not even seem to notice that it had slipped out, unfamiliar in her mouth. "You should have seen. Then you would know my blood is the same as yours."

Draco stiffened. If he'd been there, would he have seen her blood? Or would he have seen some valiant act done by her to show that she was, metaphorically speaking, of the same blood as he: great, brave? Was she being literal or symbolic? "What did they do to you?" he asked finally, softly. He looked at Hermione, waiting for her to say something, but, having let all the steam blow out, she was back to her peaceful self and was making some notes. She still had the sweet, innocent face of the eleven-year-old he'd met fifteen years ago, even though she'd just had possibly the biggest outburst of her life. Merlin, had it been that long already? She had hardly aged! Her unruly brown hair was straightened down her shoulders for a change, making her head seem smaller and her face seem bigger than they usually were. Quickly so that he wouldn't be caught, Draco stole a glance at her hands as she moved the quill across the pieces of parchment before her. There was no ring on her finger. _So the Weasel got out of it, then,_ he acknowledged with a quirk to his lips, pulling the corners down unpleasantly. _Ungrateful git. He at least gets a girl that obviously sees _something_ in him, and wastes her. Probably ended up with some self-depreciating slut like that Brown wolf._ He laughed quietly at his own joke, causing Hermione to look up from her notes. Immediately he dropped his smirk, as she gathered her quill, sat up straight in her chair, and looked at him.

"All right, let's begin. Could you give me your full name please?" Hermione asked politely, dropping any pretense she'd had of being extremely enraged at him. The change was so extraordinary, so noticeable, that he did an obvious double take before regaining his composure as the bored client in question.

"Are you sure _you're_ not the Veela here?" he asked, masking effectively the immense relief he felt at her lowered temper—there was no magic in her office, and he felt that, having been raised by Muggles, she would be more than capable to stand up for herself in that location, and he would be less than suited to defend himself in turn. She cocked her head to the side, unsure of his meaning, and he explained, "I think you were about to grow a beak and shoot fire from—"

Hermione nodded quickly, having understood the joke, but she had no time to laugh at it properly. "Mr. Malfoy, we are, unfortunately, in a really tight schedule. The sooner we get through these questions, the sooner we can begin the actual counseling. I'm not about to waste time explaining why I am no longer arguing with you. So, I ask again: could you give me your full name, _please_?"

"Granger," Draco answered humorlessly, "you know my bloody name."

"I _have_ to ask you these questions," Hermione answered sternly without hesitating, having already been expecting this reaction from him. She shrugged. "Or I could have someone else ask you, if you prefer." By then it was becoming a bit of a joke in her mind, teasing him about the possible bad publicity.

"Draco—" he began, then paused, hesitating, as he eyed her warily. She did nothing but raise an eyebrow in mere curiosity, her pen in her hand hovering slightly over the paper. He sighed and began again, knowing there was no backing out. "Draco Lucius Malfoy."

This caused Hermione to look up, her eyes sharp with realization. "I'm sorry, Draco _Lucius_ Malfoy?" she repeated quizzically. "I thought you were named—"

"After my grandfather," Draco finished off for her with a curt nod of his head in understanding. "As it was, my father wanted _his_ name to go on, not his father's; and so he named me after himself."

"Oh," was all Hermione answered as she quickly wrote it down on the parchment. She was suddenly extremely thankful that she'd bothered to ask about it, rather than make assumptions like he'd half-expected her to. She scanned down the list, answering the questions that were most obvious—place of education, age, current place of residence (she remembered this one with a shudder, the small, whitened scar on her neck tingling with the horror)—and skipped down to the ones that she could not answer. "When is your birthday?"

"June fifth," answered Draco monotonously, bored already. He stood up and began pacing, not even caring whether or not Hermione would mind. He approached her bookshelf, staring with a mixture of awe and satisfaction at her extensive, yet to be expected by her nature, collection of books. Authors he'd heard of, greatly known in the wizarding world; authors from the Muggle world that were just as famous, but not to them. Still, he refrained from touching. He did not want her to think he had the slightest bit of interest in her possessions.

She wasn't paying attention at his wandering about, however; she'd perked up at the mention of the date, something he'd been expecting. He froze, reading and rereading the spine of one particular book, _Pride and Prejudice, Pride and Prejudice_, as she stared up at him. He took a calming breath, not wanting to hear her, but her voice, in the small room, rang out clearly.

"June fifth," she echoed thoughtfully. Then she realized why it sounded so familiar! "Oh, happy birthday!"

She stood up for him, her fingers absentmindedly twisting the ring that was no longer there, as Draco turned around, shocked. Yes, he'd been expecting her reaction, but he could not believe she'd actually congratulated him. "Thank you," he said quietly, so as for her not to hear. He then cleared his throat. "Yes, now, what other questions do you have for me? Or can I leave?"

Just as quickly as the warm feeling had spread through her stomach, it retracted with the coldness of his voice, as Hermione took her seat once more. "No, we're not quite finished just yet," she replied, an odd detachment in her voice as if it were coming from elsewhere. She had wanted to make amends today, to not have to suffer through this forced interaction; evidently that was not his same priority. "Mr. Malfoy, I need to ask you some questions about your heritage."

"You must feel so smug, Granger," he said before she could go on, feeling slightly guilty at having made her so uncomfortable. But he was Draco Malfoy, not Harry Potter; he couldn't be counted on to be gentlemanly or warm, and he certainly would not soften for her suddenly now because she wished him a happy birthday. "Six years, I tortured you"—was it his imagination, or did she flinch when he said that?—"about being Muggle-born, and now…_look_ at me! I'm a half blood, for Merlin's sake. Bloody pathetic, I am."

Maybe it was in the self-reproaching way he said it, or the way he omitted the word 'Mudblood' from his speech, having replaced it with 'Muggle-born' in its stead, but she felt herself relax once more in his presence, exposed to a certain sliver of vulnerability that she doubted was common from him. All the smugness she'd been feeling—for yes, she _had_ been feeling rather pleased with herself at the change of situation—suddenly evaporated. "_You_ didn't torture me," she muttered, just loud enough for him to barely make it out. She let out a little cough and continued, "And for the record, I am not smug. I am not you." She let that sink in for a few seconds, and he tried to absorb it like a sponge. _I am not smug. I am not you._ The truth in her words, to him, was unfathomable. Had their positions been reversed, he would not have let her hear the end of it. It would be on half of that day's _Daily Prophets_ by then! He was not a bad man, but he would have, at the very least and on an extremely merciful day, been _smug_. "The tests show that you are a half-blooded Veela. Can you tell which parent it was?"

Draco had his answer ready for a long time before that. He'd known, as soon as he had fully grasped the concept of his non-pure bloodedness, that it had been, "My father." At her raised eyebrows, he explained, "My mother was too proud to be a pureblood for it to all be a ruse. And," he added, as he saw her eyes brighten with the unasked question, "she was a pureblooded _witch_, not _Veela_. You have seen the Black family tree; you know she is of the purest blood. My father, on the other hand…we were not close enough to his family, aside from Grandfather Abraxas, to be able to tell if they were any Veela."

Hermione nodded; this made sense to her. Bellatrix showed no signs of having been a Veela, and yet…there was something about it that did not seem right. Lucius Malfoy had, too, been arrogant in regard to his blood status. She decided to think about this possibility later, however, and continue with her questions. "Have you noticed any changes in behavior prior to, or after, having been diagnosed as a Veela?"

Draco scoffed, as if the notion was insane. "No, of course not, I…" Then it dawned on him, his hands warming up, his back aches whenever he became angry. "I don't know."

Hermione pursed her lips, writing it down as quickly as possible, afraid of glancing up at the clock. There were too many questions that had not been answered, more than she wanted to admit; yet she knew she'd run out of time. "That'll have to do for today."

"What?" Draco was taken by surprise, having forgotten that there was an appointed time. He glanced up at the clock in disbelief. "But it's only—"

"Ms. Granger," a voice rang out from outside the room, "it's your lunch break!"

"Thank you, Hannah," Hermione called out to her, both relieved and disappointed that the encounter was coming to a close. She hadn't managed to get any useful information from him, but she knew that if he stayed any longer at that moment, they would end up in yet another row. She hurriedly shoved all the scrolls from that case into a drawer that she pulled out from her desk, shutting it and locking it, and dropping the key into her pearly bag. "Well," she said with an air of finality and accomplishment, as she stood up and walked over to the door, tugging the collar of her turtleneck up to the corner of her jaw, hiding the scar.

"Well," echoed Draco absently, following her. She turned abruptly, and they collided in a minor way.

"Excuse me," they both said awkwardly, at once. She opened the door and waved him outside; he was only too eager to oblige. Yet, much like her, he felt oddly unsatisfied from the appointment. All he was aware of was an unmistakable urge to trust her. She controlled her temper better than anyone else he'd ever met, and, with him, patience would definitely be necessary. He knew she'd be the person to go to now, but this realization scared him.

"I'll see you on Tuesday," she called out after him as he made his way down the corridor. He turned around, not hearing her well, and quickly sped back to her door, where, blushing slightly, she repeated herself.

"Yes, Tuesday," he agreed with a polite nod of his head. She smiled at him, starting to close her door, but, suddenly remembering something, he stuck his foot in the way, the door only slightly budging his polished black shoe. "Hold on a second. If I am a Veela, which I refuse to believe," he added quickly, winning him some eye-rolling from her part, "then why were you not enchanted by me?"

"No magic in my office, Malfoy," she answered. He felt the corners of his lips twitch up, involuntarily.

"And so you finally called me Malfoy!" he claimed, relieved. He'd been wondering when she would drop the _Mr._ "I was worried for a second that you were being nice to me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at this, and he braced himself for another outburst. Yet he felt himself relax, once more, when her own lips perked into a small smirk. "All right, so maybe _some_ magic does happen in my office," she retorted, with the smart-aleck nature he'd grown used to during their time at Hogwarts. "Bye, Malfoy."

As soon as the door was closed, and he was down the hall once more, Hermione paused, trying to remember what had just happened. She had been civil to a man that had been on her case since they were children! _Maybe _some_ magic does happen in my office_, she'd said. She thought now, despite herself, _I would certainly hope that this _magic_ continues…He is not half-bad when he is not insulting house elves._ She smiled to herself as she pulled out her homemade lunch from the second drawer of her desk.

"Bye, Granger," he called over his shoulder, starting to walk away. He shook his head, trying to straighten out all his jumbled thoughts. He, Draco Malfoy, had just had an almost friendly chat with Hermione Granger.

_Magic indeed,_ he thought to himself, smirking as he caught up with Blaise outside the building.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, look who's starting to (kind of) get along! I hope I didn't rush things? This was a very fun (and ridiculously difficult) chapter to write, hope it was just as fun (but much easier) to read! Please leave a review and I'll update fast (: **

**Love,**

**TGBW**


	3. One is Silver, the Other is Gold

"But it's _Malfoy._"

Hermione rolled her eyes as her best friend repeated this. Again. And again. And _again_. "Yes, Ginny, I _know_," she drawled, drawing her fork up to her mouth, the thin green leaf dangling off of it, dripping with dressing. "We have been over this."

"Then you see why you needn't do it," Ginny answered resolutely, crossing her arms over her slightly round belly. "It was just another day in the calendar! And honestly, 'Mione, has he _ever_ given you a reason to?"

Hermione chewed thoughtfully on her salad, mentally chastising herself for not having been prepared for this question. Of course Ginny would immediately try to figure out what was fair about the situation. Honestly, it wasn't! But since when were birthdays only to be celebrated if you actually liked the person? Besides, now that they were no longer competing for the top grades—or fighting a war, for that matter—Hermione was sincerely hoping that her relations with the former Slytherin would not be as hostile as they had been before. "Gin," she said in the most reasonable voice she could muster, "it's not that big of a deal. It's not like I'm buying him a Horcrux."

The speed with which Ginny looked up to glare at Hermione was enough to make any fully grown wizard seriously rethink his words; yet Hermione merely shifted in her seat, changing her weight as she cut some of her chicken. "Hermione," Ginny warned in a low growl.

Hermione raised both of her hands. "Okay, I do apologize," she replied regretfully, inwardly picking at herself for having used such a sensitive reference. "But I was merely showing you that I had no intentions of getting him something too terribly valuable."

"Then what is the point of giving him a gift at all?" demanded the redhead, snatching her mango juice from the center of the small, square table. They were having lunch at a lovely Muggle restaurant very near the entrance to Diagon Alley, which was, in fact, their next stop. The chandelier positioned directly above their table, which was unnecessarily lit, gave Ginny a glow additional to the one she already emitted.

Hermione, meanwhile, felt uncomfortably exposed under the bright lighting of the restaurant. "It will recognize the fact that I'm acknowledging his birthday at all," she answered simply, content with the response. However, Ginny continued to stare at her with a raised eyebrow. She sighed and set down her fork. "I want him to know that I'm willing to let bygones be bygones, if he is."

"Merlin, Hermione, you're making this sound an awful lot like a peace offering," Ginny told her, suspicious, as she once again raised her cup to her lips. Suddenly, she set it back on the table with a force that slightly rattled Hermione's ice cubes. "Is _that_ what it is?"

Hermione cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. Now that she mentioned it, it was sounding rather as a peace offering than a birthday gift. She shook her head gently, ridding herself of the absurdity of the thought. "No, absolutely not," she said resolutely, more to herself than to Ginny. "He is my client, whether I like it or not, and I don't want us to wish to avada each other whenever we're close!"

Ginny shrugged carelessly as she cut up her steak, but Hermione could tell that this conversation was far from over. Instead, choosing to deviate their conversation, she piped up eagerly, "So have you chosen a name yet?"

This caught Ginny's attention, as it was her very favorite subject to talk about as of late. She set her knife down as she chewed on the meat, before swallowing quickly and looking at Hermione with new excitement in her eyes. "No, but we think we almost have! He wants to name him in honor, you know, like James; but I want a new name."

"Oh?" asked Hermione, curious as to this new development. Last she'd heard about the subject was that they thought it to be too early to start thinking about it. Of course, Hermione hardly believed that three months pregnant was too early, especially since they already knew the definitive gender of the baby. "And what names are you two thinking about?"

"Well," began Ginny, getting riled up about the subject, "_I_ want to name him something memorable, like Griffith. Or Maxfield, or Prescott." Hermione realized with a smirk that Ginny wasn't even close to choosing one. "I like the sound of Prescott, though. And Griffith." She looked up at the chandelier, as if asking it for its opinion, before looking back at Hermione with a sudden expression of realization. "Prescott Griffith Potter! Well, _there_ we go!"

Hermione cringed inwardly; she didn't like the sound of the name. It sounded too uniform, having three names, each with two syllables, as if it were planned out precisely. Still, she didn't dare tell Ginny any of this; not when she was so sensitive with her unborn son. "They certainly are memorable," she remarked evasively, before remembering that it takes two to make a baby. "And what about Harry, what name does he want?"

Ginny rolled her eyes in exasperation. "As if you really need to ask! He's still choosing, but I'm pretty sure he's exhausted the whole Marauders options, as I honestly doubt he's in the mood of naming his son Peter"—Hermione stifled a laugh at the crude joke—"but I'm pretty sure he's trying out the sound of Alastor. Remus Alastor, I'm thinking."

Hermione wasn't afraid to chuckle at this suggestion. The whole name was far too ludicrous for her discretion; it was as if Harry wanted everyone to know that the boy was a Potter, as if the world needed reminding. "_Mad-Eye_?" she asked, reaching for a napkin with which to dab at the corners of her mouth. "Gin, you can't be serious!"

"Oh, but I am," she told her sadly, shaking her head. "Now, don't think I won't put up a fight! I loved Lupin almost as much as you three did, he was a great teacher and a wonderful member of the Order, and Mad-Eye was part of the reason why my husband is still alive and well, but I think if anyone should be remembered, it should be Fred."

Hermione watched with a heartbroken expression as her best friend choked back a small sob, remembering her older brother, but something else was tugging at her mind. Finally she murmured comfortingly, "Don't bother arguing with Harry over your unborn child, Ginny. You don't want any problems."

Ginny straightened up, nodding in agreement as she quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her pale, broom-roughened hands. "You're right, 'Mione. I'm sorry, how terribly insensitive—"

"Don't worry about it," Hermione replied quickly, taking a drink from her cup before she blabbered on. She didn't want her voice, or choice of words for that matter, to betray any emotion.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, during which Hermione finished her salad and Ginny waved at the waiter for a refill of her juice. She sat with her arm in the air for what, to her impatient self, felt like ages, before cursing under her breath and reaching into her purse for her wand.

"Ginny!" Hermione chastised her friend through a loud hiss, causing Ginny to freeze and put her wand back in the bag. "You should not use magic in such public Muggle places!"

"Well, they shouldn't give me a reason to!" Ginny countered. Nevertheless, she raised her arm back into the air, glancing around inside the restaurant, feeling her tongue grow dry with exaggerated (by her) thirst. Finally, a tall, slender, light-haired young man walked by, and Hermione recognized him as their waiter. "About time," muttered the redhead humorlessly as she held up her glass at him.

He seemed taken slightly aback by her bluntness, as he took a surprised step back. This did not escape Hermione's notice, and she said apologetically as she stole a glance at Ginny, "I'm so sorry, sir, but she seems to have forgotten her manners."

The waiter shook his head lightly, turning to Hermione for the first time, Ginny's glass still in his hand. He looked at Hermione for a couple of silent seconds before breaking into a pearly white, genuine smile. "Ah, no worries," he told her, looking down at the table. "Will you want a refill as well?"

Ginny looked quickly from the waiter to Hermione, sensing with a keen eye that he found her even the slightest bit attractive. Hermione shook her head bashfully. "Oh, it's okay."

Both women watched as he flashed Hermione yet another charming smile, before turning around to fetch Ginny her drink. Ginny turned her attention back to her food; Hermione, on the other hand, wasn't so quick with her transition. "He's handsome," remarked Ginny, remembering his dark brown eyes and slightly freckled complexion. "Not half-bad."

Hermione whipped her head back towards Ginny in surprise, but the redhead only smirked at Hermione. The brunette self-consciously ran a hand through her previously unruly, now smooth and curly, brown hair. "I suppose," she replied with what she sincerely hoped would pass off as nonchalance. She _had_ been thinking the same thing, but there was not much she could do about it.

Ginny raised an eyebrow at her friend, having caught the note of slight interest in her usually matter-of-fact voice. _Always so noble_, she thought with a hint of irritation. Since the divorce, Hermione hadn't been seeing anyone, and it had already been, what, almost three years? "So," she began, hoping to ease into the conversation, "has Professor McGonagall owled you the invitation to her ball?"

Hermione gladly jumped on the new, seemingly unlinked subject. Only a couple of hours ago, she had received a beautiful brown owl, sporting an official-looking letter. She'd been pleased to see that it was an invitation to Professor McGonagall's alumni celebration. It was for the graduates of 1998—or at least, for who would've been the graduates of 1998—but they were allowed to bring one guest. "Oh, yes! I am so thrilled to attend! Has Harry received the invitation?"

"Just yesterday," Ginny replied with a smile, relieved at how easy the transition could be. But it would have to wait a little bit, so as to not seem too suspicious. "Do you think it might be awkward for me, since I would be the only one of my year?"

Hermione laughed a bit at the thought. Ginny may have been one year younger than all of them, except Luna, but she was as near and dear to them as Hermione herself! During their time at Hogwarts, the year did not seem to matter as much as the house team, and the Gryffindors had always, by nature and tradition, been the tightest pack. "I wouldn't worry about it, Gin, everyone loves you," she assured her friend.

Ginny watched with hawk-like eyes as the waiter returned, setting down her drink before her. Hermione averted her gaze, but that didn't mean Ginny didn't catch the waiter looking over at Hermione a couple of times before slinking away. "So are you planning on taking anyone?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose as she took a sip of her drink. "Absolutely not. The only Hogwarts boys I still maintain contact with are Harry, Neville, and Malfoy." She caught herself just in time before spilling out the fourth name, which would have been a blatant lie. She did _not_ maintain contact with him anymore, even though Harry begged her to.

"Must he be from Hogwarts?" asked the redhead, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. She hoped she didn't need to say his name, because she had no good memory and they hadn't seen him in over a decade.

Hermione rolled her eyes, nevertheless feeling somewhat impressed by Ginny's wit at recalling that particular event. "If you're referring to Viktor," she sighed, relieving Ginny from the pain of trying to remember him, "then you should know that he is now happily married and living in Wales."

Now it was Ginny's turn to wrinkle her nose and simultaneously roll her eyes in great annoyance. She'd never thought much of Viktor Krum—in fact, she was feeling surprised that he'd settled down already—but she'd hoped that he would at least be a fair contender when choosing Hermione's date to McGonagall's ball. Suddenly she remembered someone else that had been captivated by her friend around the same time. "Oh! I know!" she said with a glimmer of mischief in her brown eyes.

Hermione shuddered. Ginny with an idea, plus that dangerous look in her eyes, was definitely trouble.

* * *

The bar was packed by the time Draco arrived. Blaise was pushed against the wall in his booth, as the bartenders crammed people into tables with other people at random. Even for a weekend, this struck Draco as odd. _No, _especially _on a Sunday_, he thought, frustrated. Of course, the night of his birthday there would be more people. Not that he wasn't sociable; Merlin, if they were all witches, he would have thought he'd died and gone to an undeserved heaven! But no, as far as he could see, there were just as many witches as there were wizards. He slinked past a couple of smaller, two-person tables in which rather hopeless-looking wizards were trying to make a move on witches who either could do better but didn't know it, or were too drunk already to care.

He was relieved when he saw that the two people crammed into the same booth as his friend were female, and the one sitting opposite Blaise's side was skinny yet curvy, with obviously enchanted black hair that fell over her exposed shoulder, straight and seemingly silky, as she sat in killer stilettos and a shimmery silver, somewhat skimpy dress. "Blaise Zabini, the bloody bastard," he exclaimed as he neared the table, walking around it and squishing in next to the brunette witch.

Blaise, who'd been previously not-too-discreetly ogling at the light brown-haired witch sitting next to him, looked up with a start, easing into a comfortable, goofy grin as he realized whom it was. "About time you showed up, eh, Draco?" he teased, sitting up in his seat as he waved to the bartender. "Thought for a second you wouldn't show up."

"To my own birthday celebration?" Draco asked, feigning insult. "Not when you're the one paying, Blaise!" To the waitress, he ordered, "One Goblet of Fire, please."

"And another firewhiskey," added Blaise before the waitress could leave. He watched her go with a wistful expression before turning back to his guest. "Hitting the hard stuff right off, then?"

"Ugh," Draco scoffed, exhausted, "you have _no_ idea. Dealing with the Mudblood is positively _tiring_." He decided to leave out the part in which he and Granger actually got somewhat along. Overall, it hadn't been a bad experience, and he'd been surprised when their disagreements were resolved so quickly. _Probably has something to do with the ruddy fact that I'd shoot fire_, he assured himself, before remembering, no, that's not possible, no magic in Granger's office.

Blaise laughed and shook his head. "I've got to admit, I was surprised when I got your owl. Who would've guessed that Granger would end up at the Ministry, eh?"

Draco rolled his eyes, but he understood where he was coming from. If what his father had told his mother all those years ago was true, the Golden Trio had enough reason to never step inside the Ministry again. Of course, now with one of Dumbledore's lapdogs as Minister for his eighth year, he supposed that they would be slightly more trusting. "It was either that, a dent or something—like her parents, you know—or a new Madame Pince."

"Oh, Merlin," grimaced Blaise, already morphing his mental image of the muggle-born to look more like the old librarian. They both sat there for a couple of seconds, laughing privately at the picture, before Blaise looked back at Draco, a curious expression on his face, and asked, "So what does she look like?"

Bewildered, Draco stared at his friend for a heartbeat, as if Blaise had spontaneously grown horns out of his head. "Nothing like Madame Pince; I was _joking_."

Blaise threw his head back in a loud laugh, startling the witches slightly, before scoffing at Draco for being so daft. "Yes, I'm aware, thank you," he said sarcastically. Then his voice went back to normal as he explained, "But what does she look like, now that she's all grown up?"

Draco thought about it for a second. He wasn't sure how to describe her, exactly. She kept the same facial features as she'd had when they went to Hogwarts, though she had finally managed to control her hair. She'd also filled out in all the right places, and he thought, if he didn't know her or about her already, he'd definitely go for her at some bar. "Granger's stepped up," he said finally, his trademark smirk plastered across his face. _Wedding band or not_, he thought to himself, before letting out a laugh. Since when had he ever discriminated against married witches?

"Oh?" asked Blaise, interested by then. Draco rolled his eyes; his friend could be such a pig sometimes. "Shame she's taken by that Weasel bloke, then."

Draco looked at him, surprise clear and evident in his eyes, even as the wheels in his mind began to turn. Was she taken? No, not unless they were not even engaged yet. He was definitely not up to date with what the heroes of the wizarding world were up to, but he had a nagging feeling, seeing Hermione's office so devoid of pictures with all three of them (he'd seen a couple of pictures, muggle and magical, of herself, Harry, and Ginny, but none of the Weasel), that she was no longer associated with the ginger-haired twit. "Blaise, I thought you didn't care about appearances! Blood is blood."

"And the war was the war," Blaise replied, looking somewhat somber as the waitress arrived, setting down two glasses before them. Draco looked down at his drink, pleased to see that his Goblet of Fire, the signature drink of that particular bar, looked to be living up to its name. "I was a prat in school, Draco, even you must know that. Hated everyone, both sides, because who knows which one would win?" He allowed himself a small smirk as Draco nodded approvingly, looking somewhat impressed by this tactic. "Now I know which one to pick."

Draco laughed, as his mind made a quick transition. "You're so smart about war, Blaise, and yet you chose to get married to _Parkinson_."

Blaise scowled; he wasn't exactly in the mood to discuss his marriage, yet he knew he ran the risk of angering Draco if he avoided the subject too openly. So he said emotionlessly, "We all make mistakes, Draco. Mine was to be so careless with Pansy, but now we've got Elliott to worry about. Even if I could leave, I wouldn't. I don't want him to grow up the way I did."

Draco scoffed; Blaise's earlier comment about being a prat was exactly spot-on, and saying that he didn't want Elliott to be raised the same way was a bit of an understatement, to the best of his understanding. He knew that his friend's mother must be currently on her eleventh husband, but they had been married for over a year so he wasn't placing any bets on it lasting much longer.

Suddenly, a short, plain-looking witch that Draco recognized as one of the receptionists of the bar walked through the doors, a brown owl perched on her shoulder. She looked around, as if searching for someone, before her eyes landed on their very corner. She hurried to them, much to the other witches' annoyance, and asked, "Draco Lucius Malfoy, and Blaise Niccolo Zabini?"

Both men turned around at the calling, and Draco raised a tentative hand to wave her over. She walked around the table, and set the owl between them; and they saw that the owl had two letters attached to it, both in identical envelopes except for the names. She quickly untied them and handed them to their respective wizard, before saying, "Have a good evening," and Apparating downstairs, taking the owl with her.

Draco raised his eyebrows inquisitively at Blaise, but the dark-skinned Italian seemed to genuinely have no idea what the envelopes were about. When they turned the packages over, they both looked at each other in shock, only to return their attentions back to the delivery. Draco carefully opened his, still somewhat distrustful of his old professor. _Headmistress, now,_ Draco mused as he read the signature on the letter. Then his eyes began to scan the letter, which was more of an invitation.

"Just whiz me off to Azkaban already," groaned Blaise, tossing his head back in exasperation. Draco looked up briefly, to see his friend draining the remainder of his firewhiskey, before he continued on reading. Honestly, he wasn't feeling too eager to see all the people he went to school with. Part of them was shamed by most of the wizarding community; a good portion was fearful of him, still; and the remainder was being celebrated and treated like Merlin. He was not in a good mood to go and mingle with them, as the headmistress so kindly invited him to. "Would be loads better than seeing _this_ crowd again."

"Blaise," warned Draco in a slightly condescending tone. He wasn't an open muggle-hater anymore, but he didn't want to be caught having negative thoughts about them, or about the people that have defended them in the past. Though he wasn't, nor would he ever be, Potter's greatest admirer, he had to give the man props for what he did, and had to respect him—not worship him, like the rest—as was expected of everyone. _When in Rome_, he thought with a sigh, having finished reading the letter. He looked up at his friend. "Well, what's there to lose?"

Draco suddenly worried that Blaise was about to choke; the man was thumping himself on the chest, coughing and sounding stuck, until the witch next to him started to rub his back and he regained his composure. "You're not thinking about _going_, are you?" he spat out, looking at his blond friend incredulously. He'd heard some funky rumours about Draco lately, not that he'd believed them to be true, but if he hadn't become closer to him he would've sworn that the Slytherin sitting opposite him had gone completely bonkers!

Draco shrugged carelessly, tucking the invitation into his jacket. "Blaise, mate, I've been off the face of the wizarding world for eight bloody years. Might as well start getting back in, you know?"

"But you _are_!" Blaise exclaimed tiredly, ignoring the frustrated glances that the two witches were throwing at him. "You're sleeping with a girl every week!" Despite Draco's furious attempts to shut him up, or at the very least lower his volume, he continued in his somewhat tipsy stupor. "Why the blazes would _you_, of all people, need to be reintroduced to society?" He held up air quotes with his fingers before and after the word _reintroduced_, trying to show Draco that he needed no reintroduction for something he'd never left.

But unfortunately, Draco had been paying him no more attention than the witches nearby. In fact, the witches may have been paying a bit more attention, as Draco had been eyeing the one next to him for most of Blaise's speech. "Say, miss, your hair is lovely," he said thoughtfully, causing the darker-haired witch to look at him in surprise.

"Oh, thank you," she blushed, before turning around. She continued talking to her friend, ignoring the incident, just like Draco had hoped she would.

"See, Blaise? Told you!" he called to him, loud enough for it to be heard by the witches over the music. Blaise groaned, shutting his eyes. If there was one thing he hated more than having to keep his hands off some of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen because he was married to a witch he didn't even love, it was having to be Draco's wingman and watching him flaunt his charms.

The woman turned around, curious by then as to what the blond was referring to. "Whatever do you mean?" she inquired.

Blaise knew the drill: just go with it. "Nothing, I just told my friend Blaise here," Draco gestured at Blaise, "that a witch like you would never spare a wizard like me a second glance." _Oh, the pity party_, thought Blaise, already familiar with his friend's approaches.

There was the pity party, in which he'd fish for compliments until he could retaliate with some hidden innuendo, leading to an eventful night in the Malfoy Manor. Then there was the impress-me skit, where Draco would tease the girl into telling him why he should spend the night with her, effectively making her beg for it, again resulting in after-hours 'fun'. Then there was the one Draco used the most, the know-it-all, in which Draco would try to tell the girl all about herself, eventually overstepping into personal and private boundaries and getting these last couple of guesses wrong. She would usually become so interested in his guessing techniques, which was really nothing but some skilled Legilimency—so skilled, in fact, that the witch would never know he was in her head—that she would tell him the correct answer, after which he would ask her to prove it.

The witch looked startled, as if she hadn't realized that he was handsome—exactly where the Malfoy wanted her. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you!" she said hurriedly, hoping to remedy whatever damage she believed she'd caused.

"Nah, it's alright," Blaise intervened, as he was expected to. "He's used to it by now, the bloody git." _Deviating from the script_, he thought to himself, smirking inwardly as he tossed in the slight insult. _Well done, Niccolo._

The witch shot him a furious glare, which cooled down to pleading as she turned back to Draco. "No, really, I mean it. You're quite handsome, actually, and you would deserve a second glance anywhere."

"Just not from you," finished Draco, fake-dejectedly. Not for the first time, Blaise wondered how much was Slytherin wit, and how much was Veela charm, because there was no way that his friend's way of picking up witches was entirely common.

She blushed even deeper, flustered by then. "From me as well!" she assured him, having dragged her friend to the back of her mind. "I would give you a second glance in a heartbeat!"

Draco dropped the façade as he looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "What if that heartbeat quickened?" he asked in a low, husky, seductive voice. Blaise nodded his approval; about time Draco brought out the big guns.

The witch leaned back, stricken. "You pig!" she exclaimed, snatching her purse and motioning her friend to follow her.

This was new to Blaise; he'd never seen anyone reject Draco, Veela or no Veela charms. "Mate, what are you _doing_?" he asked, utterly puzzled.

Draco held up a hand as if to say, _Give me a minute_, and then called out as loud as his voice would carry it, "I told you she was a prude!"

Blaise looked at his friend, his eyes so wide that Draco thought they might pop out of his head any moment. _He's lost his bloody mind!_ Blaise screamed in his head, staring at his friend. He was distracted as a rush of silver appeared between him and his friend, and he realized that it was the witch, and that she'd returned along with her friend. She sat down next to Draco and pulled him in for a rough kiss, totally unexpected from her previous pretense of being revolted and innocent. As Draco returned the embrace, Blaise's eyebrows shot up as realization dawned on him. This, he saw, was a new addition to Draco's box of magic tricks.

_Ten points for Slytherin_, he thought, amused.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Gaah, I know, not my best chapter! But I had to; this is what people call a filler chapter, necessary but totally boring to write.**

**On a more positive note: I started writing the alumni ball chapter! It won't be the next one; actually it won't show up for a while, but it's gearing up to be one of my favorites. For the first time, I actually have a plan for this story :D **

**Read and please take a few seconds out of your busy day to review (: **

**Love, as always,**

**Andee**


	4. The Scorpion Snitch

"Name?"

"Draco Malfoy," he said monotonously, not even bothering to dignify the secretary—Hannah, was it?—with eye contact. She flipped through some of the scrolls piled up on her desk, and then her shoulders settled down as she found what she was looking for.

"Ah, of course. Miss Granger is in her office, so if you will…" She gestured down the hall towards Hermione's office, but Draco noticed a twinkle of mischief shining in her eyes. Before he could ask anything though—which he really was not planning to—he was ushered forward, pausing only slightly to knock on her door.

"Come in!" her silky voice called from the other side of the door. Draco hesitantly began to turn the knob, and through the small window by the door he saw her reaching towards her desk, apparently carrying something heavy. Though he did not feel like showing such compassion, he felt as though it was his responsibility to volunteer with whatever she was struggling with. As soon as he stepped through the entrance, however, his mind changed around immediately.

"Surprise!" she cried out, clapping her hands together. Draco's eyes couldn't seem to widen enough to take everything in: there was a banner stretched across the top of her window, spelling out HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY, MALFOY; there was a small, velvet green box on the corner of her desk; and now he could see what she'd been struggling to carry.

A two-tier cake, dark green with silver stripes and—if his math was not incorrect—twenty-five candles lit atop it. He glanced around, amazed at the sight. Had she really gone through all that trouble for _him_? True, the banner and the little box were probably no work at all, but he knew for a fact that nobody would be willing to bake a birthday cake for a former Slytherin and, even worse, Death Eater. The cake had surely been made by her.

"This is…for me?" he asked incredulously, still not able to suppress his surprise. The only acknowledgement he'd received for his birthday was a letter from his mum, and a few drinks from Blaise. (And a night with Elma the black-haired witch, but she hadn't known it was his birthday treat from her.) He looked up at the sign, which, now that he could see it properly, seemed to be enchanted—he figured, since it had to have been enchanted before being brought into the office, that's how it was still magical. Within the outline of the letters was the distinct shape of a ferret. He knew he should be angry about it, but he couldn't help but feel mildly amused. At least she hadn't made it into a Veela; that would've been hitting too close to home. He turned around, and Hermione nodded eagerly.

"I didn't know what your favorite cake flavor was, obviously," she admitted bashfully, walking around her table and pushing the cake towards him, "so I just guessed that it would be chocolate. I mean, everyone loves chocolate." She laughed nervously, and he could immediately tell she was anxious. Truly, remarkably anxious. He tried to suppress a smile, which he did successfully, for he was absolutely stunned. After a single civil interaction, she'd already gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable. Little did she know, this did not make him feel comfortable. At all.

"I'm sure Blaise and Pansy will enjoy this," he said emotionlessly, examining the cake with a scornful expression. Hermione's smile faltered; he didn't like it. All that time she'd spent trying to get it just right, and he wasn't even thanking her! As though she'd said it out loud, or he'd read her mind, he added a quiet, "Thank you, though."

"You do not eat cake," she stated, although it came out more as a question. She was truly curious as to why he would not just enjoy the dessert. Surely he'd dropped all the prejudices he'd held against her? He was, after all, no longer a pureblood, not that he'd truly ever been.

"I'm not particularly fond of sweets," he told her, though not unkindly. He said it more matter-of-factly, though he was still eyeing the cake, as if considering whether or not it was worth eating, or, even worse, worth giving Pansy and Blaise. Though Hermione was slightly surprised to have heard their names said together, she made sure to keep her face devoid of emotion so as to not give her cluelessness away. He abruptly turned towards the corner of the table, now staring at the velvet box. "What is that?"

"Wha—oh!" she exclaimed, running to take it before he could. Merlin, she'd almost forgotten about the present that Ginny had helped her pick out! She hesitantly handed it over to him, trying to control the blush creeping up to her cheeks. Had she gone overboard? He was staring at her with a gaping mouth, was that bad? Was he surprised or horrified? Merlin's beard, was Ginny right? Was it odd for her to be so nice to him? She could just take it back, if he truly didn't want it. "It's just a little detail I got you for your birthday," she said, slightly embarrassed. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged and merely pointed at it, as if asking him to just open it already.

Inside was a shiny black Snitch, the first one Draco had ever seen in that color, and so close up. He'd come near a number of them during and after his years at Hogwarts, but he'd never taken the time to study its details. He could see it had little patterns engraved upon it, and so he picked it up to examine it closely. As soon as he touched it, it grew the smallest set of dragon wings he'd ever seen, before taking off and fluttering about the room. Hermione stuck her index finger and thumb in her mouth, motioning him to whistle, and so he did. Almost immediately, it returned to his hand, popping open and revealing a beautiful emerald-on-silver, yet somehow still masculine, ring. Now that the Snitch was calmer, he could see it up close, and was surprised to find scorpions engraved on it. Not only that, but the lovely ring also had the shape of a scorpion, and, as he tried it on, it wrapped itself around his finger, almost as if it were sleeping. He gasped before hesitantly petting it, almost forgetting that it was merely enchanted jewelry and instead confusing it for a real-life scorpion, and tucked the Snitch back into the box, ready to voice his awkward thanks, when he was interrupted by a shrill cry.

"Bloody hell!" cried Hermione, looking aghast. She took the snitch out of the box and struggled to keep a hold of it, even as it burst out its dragon wings in protest, and got a good look at it. "They've given me the wrong one!"

"Whatever do you mean?" Draco asked, genuinely puzzled. He thought the gift was nice, uncharacteristically so—not because he doubted that Hermione could ever be this kind, but he'd made her life hell and worse for most of her childhood, and they had no legitimate reason to even try to act nice to each other. He figured she was the forgiving kind, although that was still no explanation as to her sudden outburst.

"Oh, those blasted idiots!" she muttered, giving back the box to Draco. "I'd ordered a dragon, because of your name," she mumbled apologetically, "but it seems they've given me a scorpion, instead." She sat down, staring at the cake in defeat. Could she do nothing right?

Draco looked from her to his ring, and he suddenly had the thought of comforting her. She'd done so much for him—agreeing to help him through his half-bloodedness, keeping his secret…Merlin, she'd even celebrated his birthday! He felt oddly guilty, and so he walked up to the desk and muttered, "I don't mind the scorpions."

She raised her gaze to meet his, and was surprised not to find coldness in his silver eyes. She gave him a small, grateful smile, before clearing her throat: a clear signal that they were returning to business as usual. Or, at least, as what was usual since two days ago on the 5th of June.

"So," she started with her formal voice once more, "last session, we briefly—"

"Did you make the cake?" he blurted out with no form of skirting around the subject. Straight to the point, objective it seemed, but he really did want to know. It would show just how much effort she'd put forth in the little display.

She seemed taken aback by the somewhat rude interruption, but recovered quickly nevertheless. She was surprised by his curiosity. She hadn't thought much of it: why deny him his cake? Let him have cake! She allowed herself a small smile as she recalled muggle history's Marie Antoinette. _Answer him!_ she reminded herself. "Why yes, I did. Now, as I was saying, last—"

"And the ring," he added hastily, almost as a bit of an afterthought, "and the Snitch. Who gave those to you?"

"I _ordered_ them, Mr. Malfoy," she told him, exasperated by then. She hadn't counted on so much discussion about such a simple celebration. Good Merlin, she'd definitely overdone it and was now paying for it! Oh, why hadn't she simply listened to Ginny? That woman had everything under control!

"Were they expensive?" he inquired, leaning forward in his seat by then. He knew they couldn't be; where on earth had she gotten the money otherwise? Certainly not from that no-good ginger who could barely support himself! Besides, just the thought that she was spending on him made him shiver with discomfort. It would only be polite to return the favor, and he really did not wish to get her anything, because blood was blood and war was war and half-bloods were half-bloods, whether he like it or not. Half-blooded though he may be, she was still of less pure blood than him.

She thought about it for a second. Her two options were equally unpleasant: admit it, and admit the fact she'd spent so much on her former archenemy, or lie and let him believe they were cheap. She decided on something noncommittal, and instead just shrugged. "Varies upon opinion," she said simply, hoping he didn't catch any note that would give away its worth.

He examined the scorpion ring more closely. "But this is goblin-made," he marveled. He'd never had too many goblin possessions; his father, ironically, was never one for dealing with magical creatures, and even so goblins were unbearably stingy and would never allow them to keep the artifacts. Still, he was familiar with their workings, and he could tell that the ring—and the Snitch, most likely—was valuable. A sudden thought overcame him, and, before he could think properly about it, he spat out viciously, "So this is how you're spending whatever alimony the Weasel can scrape up, then?"

Hermione visibly recoiled, as if she'd been slapped—which he had no doubts he'd done, however verbally. Her vision blurred, though she willed her tears to stay in place. Here she was, trying to give him a peace offering, a truce, to show that she was completely over his actions before and during the war, and he just _had_ to pull out the thing that hurt her most. It was not the reference that Ron was poor; she was used to Draco's incessant bludgering about it, and it wasn't any of her business anymore. Rather, it was not only the blatant disregard of her feelings towards the divorce, but also the implication that she would knowingly waste her precious alimony—not that she got any, she was the breadwinner and had no children to support!—on a prat like himself.

_Don't let him see your weakness_, she thought rather uncharacteristically. That was more of a Slytherin motto; this she knew well, but right now was not the time to play fair. She forced a mask onto her face and blinked a few times to rid herself of the giveaway tears, before fixing him with a steady glower. "What I do or do not with my money," she said coldly, making it clear that she was not bothered by it, she was going to be professional, he had not fazed her, and _she had money_, "is none of your concern." She ignored the awful churning in her stomach that she got whenever she thought of the divorce, and of _money_ involved with it, no less! She was at least proud she had not given in to the Slytherin's whim of seeing her at her most vulnerable.

Draco, on the other hand, was incredibly surprised by her composed demeanor. Contrary to her belief, he hadn't meant to hurt her. It was second nature for him to mock Ron's fortune, or lack thereof, and he'd said the first thing that came to his mind. In retrospect, he could certainly see how she'd been so affected by it. He knew he should feel some sort of guilt or remorse, or a sense of victory, but he felt strangely hollow about the whole situation. The concept of divorce was as foreign to him as being a half-Veela once had been—purebloods tended to stay together until death, despite their true feelings, as Blaise and Pansy so obviously did—and he had no idea how much it could impact someone as emotionally open and vulnerable as Hermione. Whereas before he would've been satisfied in seeing her hardened jaw, now he was just puzzled. She didn't seem so insulted by it, and yet there was a strong coldness behind her glare.

"Last session," she started up again, a bitter chill punctuating each word as she said it, daring Draco to interrupt her once more, "we briefly outlined your situation. You are, as proven by the tests, a half-Veela, half-wizard specimen." Draco flinched at the blunt characterization, but as her eyes were trained on her pre-written speech, she missed this. "I have done a fair amount of research on your kind, but you're not commonly investigated." This Draco knew, as he'd tried to get every and any book of half-blooded Veelas and had thus far come up with nothing. "So it seems we'll have to do the research ourselves."

She kept a stony expression—partly because she was still hurt by his inconsiderate comment about her divorce, but she also wanted to mask the excitement she felt at getting some good information, _finally_, for her book. Draco nodded slowly, absorbing her suggestion, and then nodded more vigorously, gesturing for her to go on. Merlin, how did she keep such a good poker face? Wasn't it her job, after all, to defend the Weasel? Had they ended things _that_ badly?

"Since you were diagnosed," she began, "have you felt any different? Symptoms may include, naturally, strong back pains, heated hands, and, for whenever you are not angry, a certain feeling that you are the center of attention."

Draco dug back into his memories, certain that at least some of those symptoms had popped up. Of course! The first night he'd found out, he'd nearly burned down his front door. "My hands…shot fire," he told her reluctantly, staring at them as if half-expecting it to repeat. He looked up at her, and she nodded and wrote it down.

"But did it burn your hands?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice. It did not cross her mind that he could potentially burn down her office, and with good reason too, since he could not be a proper half-Veela in her office without magic. He shook his head, and once again, she recorded this. "Anything else?"

"My back hurt once or twice," he recalled, subconsciously rubbing his shoulder blades from the memory.

"How were you feeling when these symptoms took place?" she asked absently, still recording his statements. This would be perfect! Though she had less than enough sample subjects to study, she would still be able to make an approximate account of half-blooded Veelas.

He thought about it for a minute. He'd been rather upset, hadn't he? "Angry, I think," he said slowly, but he immediately knew it was true. So her predictions as to the symptoms had been correct, then?

She nodded, glancing down at the rather extensive list of questions. Merlin, there were a lot. Luckily she had time, and with the civil—if not formal—attitude adopted by both of them, they just may be able to get through them quickly and painlessly.

* * *

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," she said two hours later, standing up from her desk and letting her notes and her quill rest before her. She walked around the table, remembering at the last minute to carefully balance his birthday cake on her arms. He stood up as well, pausing at the door to receive the cake from her.

"No, thank you," he answered, glancing once more around the room. "For everything. Really."

She could tell it was verging on torture, the way he thanked her, but she appreciated it nevertheless. It only mattered if it was difficult to say; she knew he actually felt grateful then. She nodded, and, once they were outside her office, pulled out her wand to shrink the cake, in an action taken purely on impulse to help him. She suddenly did not feel so cold to him anymore, though she knew it must be the Veela charms being put to work before a potential mate. _Well, screw them_, she mused, watching as Draco held the now miniature cake in one hand easily. _Veela or not, he'd never go for a muggle-born like me._ Not that she cared, she reminded herself quickly. It was just the charm performing on her. "You are most welcome," she said, trying desperately to keep her voice in check. No need to be cooing.

"So…when's our next appointment?" he asked awkwardly, keeping his eyes on the cake, though it was not entertaining in the least. She shifted her weight, curious as to why he was trying to keep up small talk. He shrugged sheepishly and looked up at her. "I thought our session would end at three, so I kept up the protection wards until then." After yet another blank stare from her, he explained, "I can't get into the mansion just yet."

"Oh," was all she said for a moment, also staring down at the cake. Then she looked up at him, trying to avoid his gray eyes, and muttered, "I believe, if my memory's correct, that it'll be on the 9th, Mr. Malfoy."

He shuddered at the name she gave him; it reminded him of his father, and he knew the comparison was weak and the link that had been formed by blood was stained with Dark Magic; though he was his father and he felt extremely loyal to him, he'd grown up hearing dark things about Mr. Malfoy, his father. To be called that made his spine shiver. "You don't have to call me that," he told her, making a mental note to correct that addressing to anyone who would call him that.

"Very well," she said, a smile breaking on her face as she finally allowed herself to make eye contact with him, "Malfoy."

"That's not what I—" began Draco, annoyed by her teasing. Before he could finish, however, a frustratingly familiar voice broke through the silence of the corridors. It seemed to get louder as it approached, and Draco whirled around just in time to see a lanky, pale figure with bright orange hair running in their direction.

"Hermione!" the Weasley—whichever one he may be, to Draco this was a nuance—called out, waving. Draco rolled his eyes in disgust, hoping against hope that this was _not_ Ronald the original Weasel. But then he double-checked himself and remembered that, had it really been Ronald, he would not have gotten such a warm reception, as Hermione smiled even wider and threw her arms open for him.

"Percy!" she answered, hugging the redheaded wizard. Percy had gotten noticeably taller, but in an odd, disproportionate way, as if someone had cast a stretching charm on him that had not also widened out his features. He vaguely reminded Draco of overcooked noodles. "How was it?"

"I think I really got through to them," Percy answered, looking extremely cheerful—an expression Draco was desperate to knock off his face. "I reckon they're really starting to have some confidence in me."

Hermione noticed Draco's bored face and mistook it as a sullen expression regarding his lack of knowledge in their conversation, and decided to explain. "Percy's been on the Ministry's case for a stricter Ghosts and Nonliving Rules and Regulations, specifically at Hogwarts, and today was one of the"—she looked back at Percy, who seemed to be fighting the urge to do jumping jacks of joy—"_most_ important meetings up to date!"

"Feeling particularly _lucky_, I am!" said Percy with a sly wink at Hermione, who rolled her eyes as she figured out why he was in such a good mood, and then he turned to look at Draco, his good-natured smile vanishing almost immediately. The tone of his skin turned so red that, in the blond's opinion, it rivaled his hair, and he visibly gulped. "Oh. Hello, Malfoy."

"Weasley," he sneered, eyeing Percy. He'd never had much interaction with the third eldest Weasley, but, hell, blood was blood, now wasn't it? "I see you're still working at the Ministry, like your father."

If it was possible for Percy to enhance his resemblance to a red pepper, he sure as hell did it. "With all due respect, Malfoy," he began haughtily, indignantly even," my father is currently enjoying his new post here at the Ministry of Magic"—Arthur Weasley had been most delightfully returned to his original department, once again as head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office—"whereas I hardly believe your father is too happy right now."

Hermione saw Draco's hand twitch, jaw hardened, and before wands or blood could be drawn she snaked her hand around his wrist, tightening it slightly against his protests. "Now, Percy," she chastised him in a rather condescending tone that surprised Draco, "please don't be rude to my client."

Percy opened his mouth to speak, shutting it almost immediately afterwards. Her _client_? Since when did Draco have anything to do with the Ministry anymore? Her raised eyebrow suggested that he would hear more about it later; however for the moment it would be wisest if he just dropped the subject. "My apologies, Malfoy," he said, curtly nodding his head once.

"I'll think about them, Weasley," Draco replied, and then Percy completely turned away from him as if he'd just Disapparated. Instead, he was facing Hermione now.

"Well, I do believe that this magnificent advancement deserves some celebrating," he said, more upbeat this time. Hermione smiled, a genuine smile that Draco had yet to see, at least directed towards him, and nodded. "Fantastic! I shall see you at seven in Maylin's Magical Cuisine, then?"

"I'll see you then," Hermione answered, waving goodbye at him. Honestly, he was so much easier to deal with than his youngest brother, Ron. He was the only sensible one when it came to studying, and he actually took his job seriously—not that she was depreciating Bill's or Charlie's, but honestly, working at the joke shop was _not_ a job! It was not hard to see why she got along so well with him.

Except that Draco, of course, simply could not fathom why anyone would get along well with a Weasley—regardless of which one. He scowled as Percy extended his arm towards him, staring at it as if it were some cursed object until the redhead withdrew it, saluted at him and Hermione, and walked away. Then Draco turned towards Hermione. "Bloody hell, you still associate with that lot?"

Hermione's previous good mood was severely deterred by this, and her smile dropped almost immediately. "I do. They've been my family since I was twelve."

Draco rolled his eyes, but mildly he wondered how that could be. Certainly it was some sort of muggle exaggeration tendency, for, unless they'd adopted her at that age, it was not possible to simply join into another family. Was it? "But I thought the Weasel—"

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione put her hands on her hips, snapping her head back and shaking off her wavy brown hair to behind her shoulders. "Just because I'm not in good terms with one of them, doesn't mean I'm going to abandon the whole family!"

Draco shrugged; that's what had happened with her lot. He disliked Harry, so he disliked Ron and Hermione—although, of course, he would've probably disliked all three of them even if they weren't together. Still, the fact that they were close to his archenemy didn't exactly help them. "What _did_ happen with the Weasel, anyway?"

Her eyes darted, if only for the briefest of moments, towards her office door. _Maybe if I just pretend I have another appointment…_Then, having thought better of it, she simply shrugged, trying to come off as nonchalant as possible. She could feel emotional later; for now, she decided to put on the stony mask she saved especially for this topic. "You'll hear about it sooner or later."

He looked at her, utterly stunned at the dryness in her eyes. Sure, if he'd wanted to cause tears to burst, he could've been meaner, but even that would've been enough for most people to be set off. "Oh. Alright." He raised a suspicious eyebrow, but decided not to push it. This was one thing he knew he would not retrieve forcefully. If she wanted to tell him, then he'd know. He looked down in the direction Percy had gone, and muttered, "_Dinner_ with the git, honestly—"

"Goodbye, Malfoy," she smirked at him, now walking into the office once more. As soon as the door was shut, perhaps with a little more force than she should have, she leaned against the doorway and allowed herself to cry.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Does anyone know those particularly difficult chapters to write? This one took forever and still feels odd for some reason. **

**But anyway. Yesterday was my birthday! (: So pretty please review? Hope you liked the chapter (and the story, obviously). **

**Love,**

**Andee**


	5. Two Worlds Collide

"Are you liking the stew, Hermione?"

Percy had met Hermione early on in the night at Maylin's Magical Cuisine and had insisted on a table that overlooked the city. Because the building was under a disillusionment charm that worked both ways, the walls seemed like clean, polished windows that showed a view of the entire city. It was all quite fantastical; as the muggles below had absolutely no clue that right above their heads were several witches and wizards, having dinner. The restaurant was lovely, traditional magic food, and the many chandeliers had eternally changing crystals that bathed the structure—or at least, the visible surfaces within—with a blaze of light that changed color every few seconds or so. Somehow, this arrangement made the food look quite delectable, rather than odd with the different lights.

Presently, they were comfortably having their celebratory supper in an isolated booth to the farthest corner of the restaurant, again as per Percy's insistence. He, too, looked good under the ever-changing lights. His curly hair was properly trimmed, and he showed no unattractive stubble. He'd gotten contacts to replace the glasses he'd worn briefly after Hogwarts, and his face had only a few scattered freckles across his nose and cheeks, instead of the shower of dots that had previously adorned his complexion.

Hermione did not need to be reminded of what had happened between her and his youngest brother, but she knew he would not be indelicate enough to bring up the subject during their conversation. In fact, she trusted him not to pursue any uncomfortable topics at all, as strange as that was. They had not been having a particularly intriguing conversation up until then, actually, and so she'd more or less tuned out and turned her attentions to the plate before her. Now, however, she was being drawn back to the present.

Hermione, more than startled, abruptly dropped her spoon back into the mini-cauldron containing her dinner before looking up at Percy and giving him an apologetic smile. "Oh, yes. You're quite right, it tastes delicious with the red wine."

"Well, I _do_ eat here often," the redheaded wizard teased her, raising his goblet to his lips. She ate a bit of her stew silently, waiting for him to begin another conversation. She knew he was incredibly excited to speak about the newest advancement, and that it would be wisest to allow him to lead the dinner. He wiped his mouth neatly with his napkin before finally speaking up. "You know, I was honestly quite worried during this morning's meeting."

"Were you, now?" Hermione inquired politely, hurrying to swallow that last bit of mandrake stew before she was forced to say something else out of good manners.

"Oh, most definitely!" Percy replied, eager enough to indicate he was pleased with this turn of conversation. "You see, my superiors had gone to Hogwarts before Peeves the poltergeist haunted the castle, and so they hardly saw any reason to restrict the ghosts." He paused for effect, using the moment to take a sip of his wine. "Luckily, Melanie Boggit, a Ravenclaw from my year, was more than eager to recount the time Peeves poured the boiling contents of a Potions cauldron down her robes.

"Down her—oh!" Hermione gasped, then tried to contain her laughter as she remembered the Ravenclaw on her own first year. "Oh, how dreadful! That was Melanie Boggit?"

Percy nodded gravely, recalling the time when his fellow classmate had spent a fortnight smelling like Ron's dirty socks. Of course, she hadn't really smelled like that. Mortis Repellum, the potion that had been spilt, was brewed to smell terrifyingly repugnant according to each individual's tastes. "She' been incredibly compliant when interviewed about the mischief-maker, that one."

Hermione nodded; the poor girl! She'd walked around for two weeks smelling like hippogriff feces and dungbombs, repelling all her friends and classmates. She'd probably be relieved that Peeves would be put under control at last. Heck, Hermione had never been personally victimized by the mischievous poltergeist, yet even _she_ was glad to hear of his new restrictions!

"I wish you the best of luck, then," she told him earnestly, smiling at him warmly. She knew that he would most likely succeed, as not only was he fortunate enough to be on Kingsley's good graces, but also he was truly smart and convincing.

"That," Percy returned the smile warmly as he replied, "is very much appreciated." She continued eating, having run out of things she could say. Finally, he broke the awkward silence once more. "How are you liking your position in the Ministry?

Whether this was a hook to ask about Malfoy, or to praise the new reinstated Ministry of Magic, Hermione wasn't sure; but she took the bait anyways. She was far too fond of people who cared enough about her to inquire about her life, if only to talk about her job. "Quite well," thank you," she answered, preparing herself to start talking about her office. "Aside from counseling, I—well, this was meant to be my vacation time, but unfortunately Mr. Wolbecker had decided to give me a job last week."

"How untimely!" Percy lamented politely, shaking his head in disapproval. "Had you been given the full year, though, what would you do?"

"As a matter of fact, I was _just_ getting to that," she said, sitting up in her chair. "Aside from counseling, I am leading two projects in the meanwhile. One is a continuation of a sort of club I began, in fourth year, the Society for the—"

"Promotion of Elfish Welfare," Percy finished for her, looking quite content. She looked at him, amazed. How had he even known about that? As if he'd read her thoughts, he informed her, "You know, just because I was no longer at school doesn't mean I was not updated with the goings-on." This earned him one of Hermione's trademark blushes, which he noted with a twinkle in his eyes. "For the record, you have my full support."

"Thank you!" she beamed at him, straightening up in her seat. "And my other project, well, it's still being worked on—I mean, I suppose it could be a while—and I don't even know if it will be too successful—"

"Hermione," he said gently, interrupting her unnecessary ramblings, "everything successful takes a long time to achieve."

Once again, she flushed bright peach, sheepish by his reassurances. "Of course, of course…Well, my second project is, mm, I'm writing a book about half-blooded wizards, nymphs, centaurs…anything, really!" _Veela_, she added in her mind.

"That sounds fascinating!" he exclaimed, leaning forth in his seat. "How is this project coming along?"

"I am on the last chapter of my research, but it may take a while, as I have not found many documents about this particular breed," she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders. She allowed herself to take a quick sip of her own wine before continuing. "Unfortunately, I don't believe that my newest client will allow me to write very often."

"Ah, yes, your new client," Percy replied, a new tone in his voice that differed from his friendly demeanor. "I was curious as to why you are now counseling Draco Malfoy, seeing as you are believed to only specialize in magical beings."

Hermione squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, internally debating whether or not to tell him. Harry or Ginny, she would never dare tell. Their rivalry with the former Slytherin ran too deep to not guarantee a great deal of teasing! But surely Percy could be relied on to behave much more maturely than that, right? "Recently, Malfoy found out he is a half-blooded Veela."

If Hermione had been expecting some sort of shocked reaction from the Weasley, she would have been sorely disappointed. He merely nodded in acceptance of the fact, as if he'd known all along. He explained, "I had my suspicions during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. You see, Veelas can't attract other Veelas the same way they attract humans. It was obvious that he was not as drawn to them as others were."

"Oh," she breathed; this made perfect sense. Even in the Quidditch World Cup, he and his father had been two of the ridiculously few men who had not wanted desperately to declare their love for the Bulgarian dancing Veelas. Then she remembered that this was confidential, and hastily added, "Oh, but you won't tell Harry or anyone in your family, will you?"

"Of course not!" he scoffed, as if the notion was too ridiculous to even consider. "You can trust me, Hermione." They sat in light silence for a few moments, as Hermione sighed gratefully. Thank Merlin he was so trustworthy! Then he added, very quietly, "I really am sorry about your divorce."

She quickly looked down, biting her tongue and praying that no tears would spill. "Thank you," she muttered, not daring to meet his eyes. He was one of the few Weasleys with whom she had not discussed the separation, and she'd held on to the false, unfounded hope that he was on her side, if not neutral. All the Weasleys, except of course Ronald himself, had adopted a blatant state of neutrality. Even Ginny hadn't wholeheartedly backed her up—not that she could blame her. Perhaps it would have been easier if one of them had actually done something wrong. That would have made it much less complicated to just hate Ron, something Hermione simply could not bring herself to do. In reality, she was not too sure as to why they were not even on owling terms.

"So am I," she whispered, eyes still downcast. When she looked up, she was surprised to see sympathy in his eyes.

"Ronald is my brother, and I will always love him," he told her sadly, "but I must say I agree with you."

"You do?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Of course!" he answered, seemingly surprised by the question. "You were absolutely right! 'What will happen once you have children?' I often asked. As I told him in the beginning, working at the joke shop is no way to—"

"If it's all the same to you," she interrupted him, holding up a hand, "I would really rather not discuss it, and especially not here." He nodded in agreement, and they then returned to the superficial conversations they'd been having before the food arrived.

* * *

"Draco Malfoy," the blond wizard said in a bored monotone as he arrived at the entrance gate to the newly refurbished Zabini-Parkinson mansion. He mentally cursed the new security measures before remembering that he'd been the one to suggest them in the first place.

The dark silver gates swung open in a painfully slow manner, and he stepped into the front garden, containing a wide variety of beautifully arranged plants—all of which, he knew, were deadly to the touch. As he walked on the carefully placed cement, his notorious dark green robes billowing behind him, he couldn't help but notice how this estate was almost a smaller replica of his own manor, the only difference being that, instead of poisonous plants, he guarded his private property with carnivorous albino peacocks from a shady black wizarding market in China.

He tapped his wand on the doorknob, much like was mandatory in order to enter Diagon Alley, and patiently waited as the door reluctantly croaked open. As if through his own home, he made his way to the formal dining room, furnished with a long table that reminded him eerily of the one he'd had to, once upon a time, share with the Dark Lord. _Voldemort_, he thought defiantly, clenching his jaw. He no longer needed to feign respect for the monster that had controlled him in his past life.

At one end of the table sat Blaise, looking rather rigid as he stared at a silver platter of fruits that had been set right in front of Pansy, who sat right in the middle of Blaise and the empty seat (presumably for Draco) which opposed him. Draco was hesitant to enter the room, but Pansy, unfortunately, had seen him already.

"Draco!" she exclaimed, getting up from her seat to greet him. Blaise, on the other hand, barely looked up, looking as grumpy as Draco had ever seen him. Pansy hugged him. "Talk to him, will you?" she whispered hopefully in his ear, just before pulling away and walking back to her seat. That was when Draco first noticed the empty wine goblet positioned at the corner of Blaise's placemat. If the blond's assumption was correct, then that was not the first, nor would it be the last, time that night when the goblet would be emptied.

"Hello, there, Blaise," he said, trying his best to sound assuring whilst masking his discomfort on walking in such a raw moment—for now he saw, too, that Pansy's eyes were red and puffy from crying. "You all right there, mate?"

Blaise looked up and smirked bitterly at his friend, who was now taking a seat across the table from him. "Oh, yes, quite fantastical," he called out sarcastically, loud enough to be heard. "Would you like something to drink?"

Draco was taken aback by Blaise's surprisingly sober composure. "Er, yes, I think I'd—"

"Well, Pans," Blaise sneered at his wife, his voice drenched in gasoline just waiting to be lit, "go get him a bloody drink then!"

Pansy's eyes watered slightly, but she only clenched her jaw and shot her husband a look of pure loathing as she stormed into the kitchen. Before completely disappearing from the guest's sight, however, she gave Draco a meaningful glare meant to say, _Talk to him while I'm gone._

Once she was gone, Draco turned reluctantly to his not-so-graceful host, trying to think of what to say to begin the conversation. Luckily, however, he was spared the discomfort when Blaise spoke first.

"Fired the elf," he muttered—loud enough to be heard across the table—in a rather gruff voice. When Draco didn't ask the question that was on both of their minds, Blaise sighed and continued. "Pansy and I had been talking about the…customs, if you will, of a magical divorce, once Elliott is of age, of course," he added the last part hastily after seeing Draco's affronted glare. "She is against it, because it would ruin both of our reputations—to say the least—and we got into a row, just as Ivy was returning with Elliott."

Draco groaned. He might not be as close to the couple as he'd once been, but he still knew that they shipped Elliott away every time they would have an adult conversation—or, more often than not, a huge argument. To hear that Ivy, their loyal house elf, had brought Elliott back too early was grave, in that Elliott wasn't supposed to know of their parents' complicated relationship.

"Pansy completely lost it, and as I started talking to Elliott," Blaise went on, "she threw half of our wardrobe at Ivy and screamed for her to never come back." His eyes flickered to the door, checking to see if Pansy would be returning anytime soon. But no, the candlelight still flickered, undisturbed, in the shadows of the outer corridor, and for a while all was quiet.

Then Draco spoke up. "How is Elliott doing, then?" Of all three of the Zabini-Parkinson clan, it was no mystery that Draco held the most affection for the youngest one.

Blaise sighed, ready to respond, when Pansy sniffled her way into the room, carrying a tray with three wine glasses. She set one on everyone's placemat before taking her seat once more, and turning pointedly towards Draco. "How are you doing?" she asked politely, folding a napkin absently on her lap. She pretended not to have heard Blaise complain about her while she was gone; she'd grown used to it by then.

Draco looked up at her and took a distracted sip from his wineglass. The tension in the cool air was all but palpable, and, Merlin, how he regretted coming for dinner! "I'm quite alright, thank you, Pansy. Yourself?" he replied almost formally, unsure of whether or not he should invite Blaise into the conversation.

Pansy shrugged as nonchalantly as she could, but Draco could see the weariness in her absentminded gesture. "Oh, the usual," she told him lightly. Then a spark appeared in her eyes, and the real Pansy resurfaced. "Surely you have received the invitation to the alumni ball next month?"

The blond Slytherin nodded. "Merlin knows why they'd want _us_ there," he said sullenly, gesturing at the three of them, "but yes, I received an invitation. Are you lot planning on going?"

Pansy's dark eyes flickered towards Blaise, who seemed to be trying to incendio the silver platter with his glower, before she said hesitantly, "We're not really very sure yet. We haven't really discussed it, so nothing's final yet."

"For _you_," scowled Blaise, allowing himself to look at his wife. "I already said I wouldn't be attending. You may go by yourself, if you wish."

"You won't very well make me go stag, would you?" she demanded angrily. "How would it look, if I were to show up alone? People will talk!"

"People _already_ talk," Blaise groaned, seemingly unconcerned by his wife's temper. "Besides, I'm not wasting any more of my money on yet another new dress robe, when you've only worn the others once."

"We're discussing this _tomorrow_," she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes shut. Then she opened them and turned her head towards Draco, plastering a fake smile on her face. "I heard that the mudblood Dean Thomas is going to accompany _Lavender Brown_ to the feast!"

"No offense, Pans, but who gives a shite?" Blaise asked monotonously, taking a sip from his wine. "And I _told_ you," he added as an afterthought, surprising Draco, who's used the word in his presence quite often, "do not use that word, especially when Elliott is home. The war is _over_."

"Well, it wouldn't have started had it not been for that daft old Scarhead," she scowled. Draco silently agreed with her.

"Speaking of Elliott," the blond interjected, hoping to smooth over the inevitable, oncoming argument, for sanity's sake, "where is the little bloke?"

"Upstairs, in his bedroom," Pansy replied, smoothing her white skirt on her thighs. "You should go visit; he's been asking about you again."

Draco was Elliott's godfather, and practically his only other relative. The Zabinis were not a close family, especially now that Blaise's mother was married to a Muggle-born for appearances' sake, and the Parkinsons disapproved of Blaise and of Elliott being born out of wedlock. Blaise, Pansy and Draco were basically all Elliott had, the poor bloke. Sure, the Malfoys weren't exactly the "group Christmas gathering" type, but they at least supported each other and spoiled their children silly.

"As a matter of fact, I will be right back," he said to them, standing up eagerly. He was certainly not in the mood to listen to their consistent dinner bickering, which he should've been used to by then. The fact of the matter was, he hated watching his two best friends fight, and not being able to do anything to mend it. He walked up the spiraling marble staircase, marveling at the walls on either side of him, both decorated with animated paintings of the Zabinis and the Parkinsons from generations past. They all had the malevolent smirk that they'd probably all been raised with. Draco knew he was.

At the end of the corridor was Elliott's room, probably the least gloomy place in the entire mansion. Painted light silver, it overlooked the enchanted lake behind the building, which always reflected the moonlight, no matter if it was cloudy or raining. The child, outlined faintly by the light streaming through the windows, was sound asleep, completely oblivious to their parents' argument downstairs. Even Draco could hear them, all the way up in the boy's room, and that unnerved him. Time and time again, he'd chastised both parents—separately and in the same room, so there could be no objections as to his approaches—that, if the reason as to why they did not simply seek a divorce was to keep the family united for Elliott to have a peaceful childhood, them still being married was extremely counterproductive. Still, they refused to heed his warnings, and opted instead to soliciting help from a marriage counselor.

_If she's like Granger,_ he thought jokingly, watching the boy, with all his life ahead of him, and a choice that Blaise, Pansy and himself had not known of in their infancy, _then Merlin help them._ He silently smirked at the thought, before leaning over the bed and gently kissing Elliott on the forehead.

He had no idea why the boy affected him so. Maybe it was just the thought that here was a child, whose future he would be able to decide for himself, who would not be coerced to become anything or anyone simply because his parents were…well…his parents. Surely he would not be allowed to go pining after some Mudblood bint—hell, not even Weasley had degraded himself to that extent—but he would not be absolutely required to become a Death Eater.

_But if Pansy or Blaise fuck this up,_ he thought viciously, exiting the room, feeling slightly disappointed that he had not been able to give his godson a nice gift, _they're as good as dead._

Once downstairs, he could see that Blaise had certainly let off some steam. Pansy, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of tears, something he had no doubt was related to whatever Blaise had gotten off his chest. But Blaise was anything but a cheater; if he'd learned something from his mother, it was that it would be best to leave the unwanted completely detached, lest people find out of their imprudence.

"Why are you wearing that silly ring?" snapped Pansy, obviously eager to take her anger out on just about anyone. Draco quickly glanced towards the stairs, thankful that at least she had the decency to take it out on him rather than on the child.

"It was a gift," he mumbled back, taking a sip from his wine and purposefully using the hand with the scorpion ring Hermione had given him—the same one that Pansy had just christened as silly.

"Well, it does not become you," she spat, quickly wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

"Funny, I think being a bitch does not become _you_, Pans," Blaise told her, butting into the conversation. She fell silent with a glare that could have turned him to stone, had she fully mastered wandless, nonverbal spells as a student.

The trio, feeling much less than golden, resumed a completely silent, uneventful, stiff dinner, and all the blond former Slytherin could think of was how Elliott might have liked the scorpion snitch.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Real quick here:**

**a) HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BRIGHTEST WITCH OF HER AGE.**

**b) Thank you for reading, please review! **

**Love,**

**TGBW**


	6. A Place in This World

_I don't know what I want, so don't ask me_

_Cause I'm still trying to figure it out_

_Don't know what's down this road, I'm just walking_

_Trying to see through the rain coming down_

_Even though I'm not the only one_

_Who feels the way I do_

-Taylor Swift, _A Place in this World_

* * *

"Good morning, Hannah," said Hermione kindly, walking past her secretary's desk to enter her own office. Just before reaching the door, however, Hannah spoke up.

"Your eleven-o-clock is waiting for you inside, Ms. Granger," she announced, not once looking up from the book perched on her lap. Hermione had never minded her secretary not working because she was reading something, as long as she always did what she needed to.

Hermione faltered, surprised. Draco Malfoy had arrived half an hour early? To _her_ office? "Now, don't be absurd," she admonished her, adjusting the straps of her purse on her shoulder. "If I have slept in, I can guarantee that he's done the same."

"_Slept in_, have we?" asked Hannah with a very obvious wink, finally closing the book on her thumb. It was a muggle book, undoubtedly one of the many she asked to borrow from Hermione's personal library but never actually planned on returning. "A little bird told me you were out with Percy Weasley!"

Hermione blushed, simultaneously rolling her eyes at the far-fetched insinuation made by her dearest employee and close friend. "I did not sleep over, if that is what you mean," she informed her haughtily, a hand resting delicately on the doorknob. "We were just out later than expected, so sue me for not waking up early!" With that, she grinned at her secretary before walking into her office…and finding that Hannah does not tell lies.

"It's about time you arrived," said Draco moodily, though his voice contained no trace of venom. He was lounging quite casually on the chair, with his left ankle resting on his right knee, clad in light gray pants and a casual black button-down. Hermione turned and closed the door, before hanging the purse on a rack and smiling at him. "You know, I never took you as someone who would show up late to work."

"I'm not _late_," she snapped over her shoulder, placing a book into one vacant slot on the shelf. "Our appointment is scheduled for eleven, and _you're_ half an hour early!"

He rolled his eyes, lowering his feet—which had been perched upon the table—and sitting upright. She did not need to know, no matter if she asked about it or not, that he'd arrived early because he'd been lonely. _No, not lonely,_ he thought furiously, half-heartedly, _just alone._ Honestly he couldn't figure out which one was more pathetic. "Well, ex_cuse_ me for arriving early then," he retorted, running a hand distractedly through his unruly hair. Merlin, he had to get a cut. She looked over at him momentarily before sitting in her chair and rummaging through the shelves to pull out a scroll and a very fancy quill…_very_ fancy… He had to wonder, just how much had that quill cost her, and how could she possibly afford it with her undoubtedly meager salary? "Whose quill did you steal?" he asked nonchalantly, as if he were asking about the time.

She gasped outrageously and slammed her hand down on the desk. "Draco Malfoy, I'll have you know I have never stolen a blasted quill in my entire life!" she exclaimed, momentarily forgetting all about the report she was writing down. "This was a wedding present from the Potters, if-you-absolutely-must-know-everything-you-nosy-git," she sped through the last part, huffing indignantly as she resumed recording notes.

Draco was silent…for half a second. "But who'd _they_ steal it from?" he asked, purposely trying to bug her. She rolled her eyes but cleverly chose not to reply, instead using the _very_ fancy flamingo quill. As she wrote, no doubt trying to drag out the time so the meeting began precisely at eleven—this made Draco roll his eyes in annoyance, since he'd actually bothered to show up early (okay no, it merely turned out that way, he hadn't a clue at what time the real appointment would be)—he busied himself with looking around the room. Finally his eyes settled upon the book whose spine he'd been reading over and over on his birthday, a week ago. (Merlin, he was already twenty-five and a week old!) He stood up, something Hermione vaguely noticed, and plucked the book off of its shelf, flipping through it. "What's this about?" he asked casually, reading the first page. Ah. Finding a wife. Something he shuddered dramatically when he thought about it.

She looked up once, then did a double take and looked at the book in his hands, cradled ever so carefully. It was one of her favorite books, one that she was quite possessive about and didn't even allow Hannah to borrow from her shelf. Nevertheless, she would have found it rather rude to snatch it out of his hands, even though there was no shadow of a doubt in her mind that he would have certainly done the same thing unto her. "That, Mr. Malfoy," she snapped, trying hard to keep the pretense of professionalism she so desired to practice, "so happens to be my favorite book of all times. It's about this sweet, yet self-declared plain girl who is attracted to an arrogant, rich bastard that often insults her."

"So, kind of like me."

"_Exactly_ like you," she sneered, signing off on one of the scrolls. "Which is why it interests me that this specific book caught your eye."

"Is the bloke handsome?" he asked, flipping through the book some more. He didn't typically read girl novels, but this one seemed to practically be his biography, had he lived far back.

She shrugged, rolling her eyes as she began to organize her cabinets. She really did not want to begin the session early, because she was supposed to end precisely at twelve thirty, and was not getting any credit for extra minutes. "He should be easy on the eyes, yes. I've heard the movie is due soon, so we'll be able to see just how good-looking he is."

"Why, do you have naughty fantasies about him?" he asked, uninterested, thinking, _Fuck all_, and just reading the back cover of the page. She snorted in amusement to his suggestion, and he quirked up the corner of his mouth in a wannabe smile. He allowed himself to look over at her as she dug through her files. "Seriously, though, does he shag any women?"

"Draco!" she exclaimed, sitting up so quickly that she hit her head with the edge of the table. She grimaced and rubbed the now tender spot underneath her no longer bushy hair, turning to the blond wizard that was placing the book back into its slot. "It's the _older days_; men don't just shag women, unless they are prostitutes and the men are wealthy! They happen to have something called _class_."

"First of all," he said, somewhat insulted by that last comment, "_I_ have class. Malfoys have class, just in general. Blacks had somewhat class, but Malfoys had undoubted class. Saying anything of the contrary is like saying the beach has no sand, or the fields have no grass. _Compris_? Second of all, how the fuck do you know that? Do you just randomly research about older day shagging?"

She blushed, locking the cabinet. She hadn't meant to insult him; she was merely stating that Mr. Darcy had not thrown himself at other girls, even if they did seem to throw themselves at him. "When I was in fifth grade, they gave us a summer reading project, and this was one of the options. Naturally, I had to do some aside research if I wanted to have a thorough paper."

"Fifth gra—but that's preposterous, after summer you'd have gone to Hogwarts!" he told her, as if she didn't know already. They had just severely gone down the intelligence scale in each other's minds.

"Well, I got my letter during the summer, so I couldn't have very well predicted the future!" she retorted, moodily recalling Professor Trelawney's claims that her inability to predict the future was due to her missing Inner Eye, or External Eye, or Extra Toe, or whatever she'd said. "Besides, the book has served its purpose, and I enjoyed it very much."

"_That_? Granger, you were eleven!" he said, astounded, as he looked up towards the bookshelves once more. The language he'd read thus far as he skimmed through the pages was certainly not fit for such a young child!

"Yes, well," she replied indignantly, slightly offended at the insinuation that she might not have been able to comprehend such poetic language. "My parents sent me to a school for gifted children when I began first grade, so we were pretty advanced."

He merely gaped at her, unsure of what to say—or whether or not he'd have been able to say anything at all. He'd known at Hogwarts that she was a brilliant student, far more hardworking than almost everyone in the grade (except for him, of course, who worked equally as hard but just was not golden in the headmaster's eye—or so he told himself), but he'd just assumed it was because of her educational opportunity. Never had he guessed that she'd just been growing up like that. Her parents were Muggles, for Salazar's sake! How was she supposed to be smart? "But…how…?" Completely thrown off, he settled for what Malfoys did best. "How the devil did your parents afford that?"

Hermione was quiet for a minute, apparently busying herself with Draco's folder on her desk, before she chose to answer. Of course it didn't matter to him that she was smart. All he cared about was ways to degrade her, to bring her down. "My parents are Muggle dentists, though I don't expect you to know what that means," she shot him an unwelcome glare, "and they make a fair amount of money. Plus they offer mini scholarships for extremely gifted kindergarteners, and those two factors combined got me the tuition I needed for five years."

He raised his eyebrows, by then genuinely impressed. His father had gotten him a magical tutor so he could be home-schooled, which explained why his friend-making skills weren't too awfully fantastic. "So then—"

"Believe it or not, Mr. Malfoy, we _do_ have a schedule to stick to," she informed him, glancing up at the miniature grandfather clock by the wall—11:00 on the spot—and settling down formally in her chair. His eyes followed hers, and he too sat down. She folded her hands up on the desk, looking at him intently. "So."

"So." They looked at each other, until finally Draco looked up at the clock again. 11:02. "Are we going to talk today?"

"What do you want to talk about?" she retaliated, lifting an eyebrow. That day, they were scheduled for a free session, which meant that the topics were free for him to choose, now that they'd gotten formalities out of the way. She was well aware that this meant they could discuss the uses of a rubber duck, if he so felt like it, but she still found it of extreme importance to allow the client to open up about his own subjects of preference.

"Oh, here, let me get out my list of topics to discuss with Granger."

"Ha ha, you are hilarious, Mr. Malfoy," she shot back, rolling her eyes in annoyance and glancing down at her papers. "You can choose the topic, or _I_ will."

"Fine." He looked around the room, finally settling on her. "You can choose."

"Alright," she replied, looking through her information so far on him. As much as she wanted to continue her research on half-blooded Veelas, she couldn't very well simply interrogate him. Her job meant to also listen to him about anything else, related to being a half-blood or not. "Ooh, here. Let's discuss your promiscuity."

"Let's discuss _your_ promiscuity," he retorted, glowering at her.

"Lack thereof, and you told me I could choose," she informed him politely, taking out her quill once more for notes. "So, let us begin at the beginning. Who was the first girl you ever had feelings for?" A snort, followed by an amused glance. She revised her phrase. "Alright. Who was the first girl you ever found attractive?"

He sat quietly for a few seconds, trying to think back to his childhood. Certainly nobody predated Hogwarts; he hadn't known too many girls, and the ones he had known were pureblooded and deformed in the way inbred girls often were. In his first year, he'd spent so much time trying to recruit Potter—trying and failing, that is—that he'd really not paid attention. Third year, well…But Merlin, that was embarrassing! "Pansy Parkinson, third year," he muttered quietly, a tinge of pink coloring his pale cheeks.

Hermione smirked and wrote this down; she'd been expecting it. In fact, she'd been utterly surprised when she found out that Pansy had married Blaise—she'd always imagined that she and Draco would have a future together. Then again, that was before she knew Draco was part Veela and therefore—bluntly put—a man-whore. She eyed him cautiously; unsure of whether or not she should ask. Then again, it was in the job description. "Tell me about your love life."

"Eager, are we?" he sneered, but made himself comfortable nevertheless, knowing that the hour and a half would be spent on him speaking and her listening. "Well, first there was Pansy, in third year. We were together until halfway through fifth year, when I couldn't get her out of detention with Umbridge. Let's just say," he told Hermione's perplexed expression, "that Pansy requires a super-man."

"Wow," the witch mouthed, writing this down. _Pansy Parkinson—3-5__th__, high expectations._

"Yeah," he chuckled. "But anyway. Then there was Marietta Edgecombe, also fifth year, and Daphne Greengrass, sixth year."

"Hold on," Hermione interrupted, writing down these names. She tapped the feather to her chin thoughtfully. "Edgecombe. Why does that name sound familiar?"

"She ratted out Dumbledore's Army," he explained.

Hermione could hardly contain her disgust. "She told on us to please her boyfriend?" she spat out, utterly horrified that she'd ever given Marietta the light of day.

Draco rolled his eyes in disbelief, astounded at Hermione's naivety. "We were never boyfriend and girlfriend, Granger; it was a one-time thing." Seeing her aghast look, he couldn't help but add with a Malfoy-like smirk, "How do you think we convinced her to sell you out?"

"Ugh, you infuriating bastard!" she yelled at him, absolutely devastated. Pissed off, too! How dare Marietta reveal their secret team for a night with Draco Malfoy?! Did the safety of their school really mean that little to her, that an orgasm would make her throw away all of their efforts? And to think she'd felt pity for the girl when everyone turned against her! Merlin knows that the little bitch deserved it.

But she remembered where she was, and what she was doing, and so she pinched the bridge of her nose and counted backwards from ten—a technique she'd suggested to many furious clients to calm them down. Once she was settled again, she motioned him to go on.

"Where was I? Oh yes. Marietta, Daphne, then Pansy again briefly in sixth year…" He rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully, trying to recall what had happened. Then seventh year, he'd had nobody. After Hogwarts came a string of strangers, witches he'd never even heard about. The very first had been a beautiful witch from Beauxbatons, who'd turned out to have quite a vengeful ex-girlfriend streak when he hadn't called her after their one-night stand. (He recalled the memory with amusement, having never known what a thousand-galleon broomstick looked like when set on fire.)

Laughing almost all the way, he recounted his "romantic" stories to Hermione, who smiled and even giggled at some of the more absurd, obsessive tales. "Though I explicitly told Lorena that it would be casual only, she still got goblin-made promise rings! And I'll tell you, they are _expensive_!" he declared, hardly able to contain his laughter. That had been Lorena Hydgarden, who was a half-nymph from Wales.

"Simonne agreed to being friends with benefits," he said later on, about a Veela named Simonne LeBlanc from Versailles, "but she brought out her claws—_literally_, mind you—when I began seeing Niranjana Kapur, a gorgeous witch from New Delhi." At this story, they both cracked up Hermione trying to calm herself down enough to be able to write down this experience.

Before they knew it, it was 11:57 and they'd finished talking about the individual encounters. Hermione had been laughing so hard that her eyes had smarted, small tears of laughter creeping over the corners of her eyelids. These, she wiped discreetly, not wanting Draco to see that she'd more or less enjoyed their session. Then she looked down at her paper, trying to think of something else that they could discuss. "How did you feel with these girls?"

Draco rubbed his chin pensively, trying to come up with a satisfactory answer. To say he'd felt even remotely complete would be a total and utter lie; then again, it was not as though he'd ever felt incomplete in the first place. One of the many advantages to being a Malfoy was that he never felt as though he needed anything else in his life. He had naturally good looks, money, and elegance. He belonged to one of the most influential families in the wizarding world, even now that Voldemort had been defeated. "I did not feel anything," he admitted honestly, and he had not. Love, lust, passion—nothing. He'd felt, for a brief moment, human. But then again, how had that, at the moment, been distinguished from any other moment in his apparently completely normal life?

"Who was your first?" she asked bluntly, not entirely for record purposes. She'd genuinely been wanting to know who started Draco off on his spur of promiscuity—well, not spur, exactly.

He went backwards through the mental list, and finally said, "Either Pansy or Marietta."

"You don't _know_?" Hermione asked, awestruck. How does someone just forget who they lost their virginity to?

"Yes, I mean, no, I don't, but in my defense they do look alike."

"No, they don't!" protested Hermione, getting dangerously close to laughing once more. The two girls could not have been more different! Whereas Pansy was dark-haired, slim, and resembled a pug, Marietta had been a pudgy, strawberry-blonde without a very noticeable face—that is, until she got the pimples. She smirked evilly at the memory. "And I'm sure you would've rather completely disassociated yourself from Marietta Edgecombe once she got that nasty bout of zits, now wouldn't you?"

Draco smirked as well, recalling the image. Since the girl had meant next to nothing to him, he felt only too free to insult her new appearance. He was fairly certain, actually, that she still maintained shadows of her scars. "Plus, I doubt I would have consciously shagged Marietta before a pureblood…Alright, so for this sake, it was Pansy Parkinson."

"She is married to Blaise now, correct?" Hermione inquired, writing this down. She had not expected Draco's sullen reaction, but when she looked up, the blond wizard had a shadow across his eyes, which seemed to darken.

"They have a five-year-old child, named Elliott," he informed her, trying not to give too much away. _They are desperate for a divorce, as soon as possible. Pansy wants to be a socialite just like her in-law and Blaise wants to play the field. Nope, no need for you to know that, though._

Hermione nodded, kind of surprised by the son bit. She hadn't pegged Pansy for an early marriage type, much less a mother, but they'd all been changed drastically during the war. She set down the quill and looked back at the clock. 12:04. _Merlin's beard, won't this end!_

"Now I wish to choose a topic," he suggested. She nodded, anticipating what would happen. He smirked; like she didn't already know what he wanted to talk about. "What about your love life, Miss Hermione Granger? Were you always the bookwormish prude everyone made you out to be?"

"Oh, shove _off_, Mal—Mr. Malfoy," she huffed, catching herself just in time. Still, she rubbed her shoulder self-consciously, fully aware that it would only be prudent to answer to him. "There truly is not much to say. When we were in fourth year, I began seeing Viktor Krum, as you well know, and then—"

"How far?" he interrupted curiously, not allowing her to carry on. She blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"How. Far," he repeated slowly, as if he were addressing a child. "What did you _do_ with him?"

"Oh," Hermione blushed darkly before regaining her composure. "Well, em, he kissed me under some mistletoe, and then we may or may not have snogged a bit after the Yule Ball."

Draco almost fell off his seat; Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor Princess, had not only snagged an older professional Quidditch player from Durmstrang, but she'd also _snogged_ him as well! There was clearly something hidden within her that nobody else seemed to be able to perceive. So she was not as innocent as she conveyed!

She noticed his startled reaction, and her face only reddened, before she could continue. "In, er, sixth year, I asked Cormac McLaggen to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party."

"Cormac McLaggen?" demanded Draco, practically fainting with these new claims. _Hermione Granger was not easy, but she certainly could be seen as accessible_, he thought imprudently to himself. "What the fuck? Isn't he the slimy bloke from Gryffindor that has basically shagged every girl in our year?"

Hermione, who'd momentarily regained her original color, blushed once more. "It's a long story, involving hormones and jealousy. Yes, that description sounds just about accurate, and, before you ask," she added, noticing that he was about to ask another question, "he snogged me several times at the party. I actually had to run away from him, leaving him under the mistletoe."

"Granger, you sound like a fucking third year," he groaned, throwing his head all the way back until it rested on the cushion of the chair. She looked at him, an eyebrow raised, completely unaware of his meaning. "'I snogged this guy, I kissed that guy,'" he whined in a terrible imitation of her voice. "Merlin, you're telling me that in sixth year, all you did was snog!"

"But he gave me a _hickey_!" she protested, hating how her experiences sounding coming out of his rather experienced mouth. He let out an actual laugh before looking up at her once more.

"Yes, okay, that's all great and well if this is what you are telling your mum," he explained to her sarcastically. "But when did you shag? When did you lose _it_?"

She looked around the room, moistening her lips nervously, trying to delay this answer as much as possible. She knew he was experienced—extremely so—and she just knew she'd sound like a total, utter prude. "I was nineteen," she muttered.

Surprisingly enough, this was the one confession to which Draco did not react outrageously. He nodded; he'd been expecting it to be late, anyway. She would not be Hermione Granger if she'd lost it at fifteen, like he had. "Scarhead or Weasel?" he asked bluntly.

She rolled her eyes. "You mean _Harry_ or _Ron_? It was Ron, actually," she told him; this, again, did not surprise him in the least. Until he made the connection. Damn her and her infuriatingly innocent Gryffindor attitude.

"You married the guy you lost your virginity to?" he asked, completely and utterly dumbstruck. Didn't these sorts of things occur only in sappy muggle movies? Granger was even more of a prude than she'd gotten credit for!

She scowled at his crude question, then looked at the clock desperately, hoping that, should the conversation continue, she would no longer feel obliged to talk about whatever he wished. Thankfully for her, it was already 12:35. "Sorry, Malfoy, but we are out of time."

He stared at her for half a beat, before standing up and straightening out his button-down and his pants, which—good Merlin help him—had _creases_. "Alright, I see." When she looked at him curiously, silently asking him for an explanation, he replied, "Today you called me Draco at least twice, yet now we're back to Malfoy."

As he turned to start leaving, a gush of boldness coursed through her, encouraging her to do what she did next. "Hey, Draco?" she called out after him, thinking to herself, _I must be a bloody masochist, really_. He hesitated before turning around to face her once more, when she began walking towards him cautiously. "I was just about to go to this incredible lunch place, and was wondering if you would like to join me?"

He actually considered it for a second before shaking his head. Some proprietors had come to him with offers to buy part of the land behind the manor, and he'd already rescheduled the meeting several times in order to make it to these counseling sessions (actually out of pure laziness, but he was not about to admit that to himself or to anyone else.) "Absolutely not."

She scowled, turning around and stomping back into her office. She was mad at herself for even caring; since when had she cared whether or not he wanted to have lunch with her? Yet deep inside, she knew quite well her reasoning. He was simply good company, and it was fun to be able to talk about these things lightly. Well, damn it all. Her Gryffindor courage had gone to waste.

As the door shut behind her, Draco groaned and ran a hand through his hair. Fantastic, now she thought he didn't _want_ to have lunch with her. Not that he necessarily _did_ want to, but—okay, yes, so she was not exactly bad company. In fact, he quite enjoyed talking with someone who would not bring up their spouse every five minutes, complaining about the disadvantages to getting divorced in the wizarding world. What do you know? His Slytherin pride seemed to decrease its swell.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well there's the next chapter! Please, as always, read and review (:**

**I literally have the entire story planned out. It will be LONG (as in, 50 chapters long) and I am still debating on whether or not to have an epilogue. McGonagall's ball will take place in chapters 10 and 11, and I am almost done with those two, so I can say that I think (and hope, obviously) that you will like them! **

**Love,**

**TGBW**


	7. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**I know, I know, I know, bad goofybookworm! I have been ignoring this website for like two months! BUT I HAVE MY REASON.**

**In English class, we were all forced to participate in NaNoWriMo. The good news is, I am one of the few that actually like writing, and so I managed to get a total of 50,083 words, meaning I will most likely receive 5 printed copies! (: The bad news is, I have been thoroughly neglecting everything else, including my fanfictions. I will try as hard as possible to have one new chapter out for ****_each_**** story before Christmas, but I make no promises!**

**Thank you for your reviews, I love you all so much! You keep me smiling (: **

**Love you guys! **

**-TGBW**


	8. Wine and Dine 'Em (Part 1)

Hermione had not dated anybody since the divorce.

It was not because she lacked suitors, which she certainly did not. How many times had Mr. Wolbecker's secretary asked her to accompany him to dinner in the past month? Though she might have been repellant in Hogwarts, she was aware that her looks had definitely matured. Men looked at her through another light, one that made her feel greatly appreciated.

Nor was it due to lack of time, which, anyway, she had none. When she was not writing the book or doing research, she was attending to her clients—or, these days, client—with the greatest of care. She was just as busy as she'd been at Hogwarts, perhaps even more so.

No, her life being devoid of any romantic connections could be blamed solely on her mind. Time and time again, she had reminded herself that if a man did not seem serious about his work, he would not be up for being her in any sense of the word. In fact, she often mistook lack of dedication as laziness, insisting to herself mentally that if he were not hardworking, then he would be the same in a relationship. Besides, did she really want to be with someone who would never understand the level at which she often overworked herself?

That was why she believed everything to be right perfect, as Percy's owl had arrived at her apartment the day before. With a giddiness she'd often attributed to—and more than openly criticized of—bimbos such as Lavender and Parvati, she ran to the window, untying the letter from its leg and giving it more than what it was due in food.

_Hermione,_ it began. She grinned and continued to read.

_Tomorrow I was due to host a dinner to further discuss the Ghost Problem_ (she laughed at this name for his proposal); _however my superiors appear to have rescheduled. Unfortunately, reservations at Chateau da Lune have already been made and cannot be canceled. In this case, the appointment was quite expensive, even for the paychecks of the Ministry. _

_I was wondering if you would care to join me, then, for dinner tomorrow at six o'clock. Please do let me know if you will be able to attend; I am sure we will have a wonderful time._

_Best regards,_

_Percy Ignatius Weasley_

She smiled to herself at his formal addressing, especially the part where he signed off with _Best regards_, but she loved and respected this about hard workers such as herself.

Of course, now she only had a mind to blame him for wrecking her earlier plans of having a lazy day, lounging in front of the muggle telly watching the lame soap operas that seemed to over-exaggerate what should be typical reactions and feelings. Now, she would have to actually make an effort to look nice.

_But I hate socializing,_ she complained mentally as she headed towards the telephone, hoping against hope that, in a fit of confusion, Ginny had not unplugged the home phone she had gotten the Potters as a wedding gift. Fortunately, her friend picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?" she asked, the yawn in her voice perfectly audible. Hermione silently berated herself for not having phoned earlier, like the day before. The least she could do was give her friend a warning.

There was heavy breathing on the other side, and she briefly wondered if she had just woken them up. Then Harry's husky, sleepy voice greeted her, "Morning?"

She sighed with relief. "Harry, thank Merlin! Can I talk to Ginny?"

"Yeah, juzzasec," he slurred tiredly, and Hermione suppressed a grin as she heard Ginny say irritably, "Who the hell rings at this bloody hour?"

"'S Hermione," he told her, before seemingly handing over the phone.

"'Mione, I love you, but you better have a good _fucking_ reason for waking me up before noon on a Saturday," Ginny growled into the phone, sounding beyond pissed. Hermione's cheeks reddened with guilt, but she knew her friend would hex her into oblivion if she even considered getting ready—for a date with her _brother_, nonetheless—by herself.

Nevertheless, she stood silently, running her fingers through the frustrating bangs that kept on falling over her eyes, making her eyelids tickle, while her best friend ranted on about what was considered an appropriate wake-up time for the weekends, especially for "a bloody pregnant—_fuck you, Harry Potter!_—bloody Quidditch player—_ex-player, okay?!_—with unrealistic sleeping expectations!"

Finally when the redhead was calm once again, Hermione began to speak tentatively. "I was just calling to ask if you would be interested in helping me with some major pre-date prep."

Ginny had agreed and hung up moodily—though Hermione could hear the slight note of excitement in her voice—before the brunette had a chance to finish.

* * *

"As you can see," said Blaise, finally speaking up as he gestured towards the artificial, enchanted pond behind the manor, "the property holds a beautiful contrast of natural and manmade ambience. The water has, of course, been charmed to feed the necessary nutrients to the peacocks, should they relapse into their hunger for human flesh." With that, he let out a shaky laugh, almost imperceptibly nudging Draco to do the same. The blond laughed warily, hoping that the proprietors would find their sense of humor appealing.

Unfortunately, these were some of the Malfoys' older clients. The men, all older than Draco's father by at least fifteen years, were the worst of the pureblooded supremacists, and had been after the estate for over a century—if one took into consideration their predecessors, who also had similar ambitions. One of the men—Wilfred Dale, if Draco was not mistaken—had even hesitated to carry on with the deal due to Blaise's askew parenthood. He was loath to do business with someone who might be a half-blood, a notion that made both the young men's blood boil over with fury. The value of the estate should not be determined by the purity of the blood of the agents.

Luckily, on the other hand, Yoto Hakashi—a pureblood from Japan, and descendant from known dark wizard Emperor Keitai—had always had a close allegiance to the Malfoy family, seeing as they had helped him and his family out of a difficult situation a few years back, and so, in return, he had granted them the gifts of the carnivorous guard animals that now graced the front yard of the Malfoy Manor. He had also always been fond of Narcissa, believing her to be his young female apprentice during her 'oriental phase,' as her son had so cynically dubbed it. Because of this, he greatly sympathize with the youngest Malfoy, therefore he was not in the least dubious about the transaction of money that was to take place.

"Well, Master Malfoy," he said, bowing reverently and prompting Dale to follow, "it seems you and your respectful estate have yourselves a deal." Draco sighed in relief, the only thought in his mind being an irrational hope that he would not be able to hear his release of breath. "I shall send Edgar with the money as soon as next week, provided, of course, that you uphold your end of the deal." That being said, he glared at Draco pointedly, who then gulped nervously and nodded.

After Blaise gracefully walked Dale and Hakashi towards the flames inside the drawing room of the manor, where they promptly flooed to their own properties, Draco let out a victorious, "_Woo-hoo_!" and proceeded to pour them both a glass of Ogden's, though it was no secret, of course, that he preferred the Goblet of Fire.

"We did it," Blaise agreed gleefully, raising his glass in Draco's direction and grinning wolfishly as the crystal clinked. They chugged down the fiery, honey-coloured liquid in a single intake of breath, immediately reaching for the next one.

"All because of you, mate," Draco said respectfully, smirking. Blaise rolled his eyes modestly, but said nothing to refute the claim. It was not far off the mark, actually. While Draco had, of course, provided the manor for inspection, and been a graceful host at that, Blaise had been the one to speak with them, getting on their good graces and pointing out all the strengths of buying the land.

After a few high-spirited shots and jokes, Blaise bade him farewell and sloppily flooed back to the Zabini-Parkinson mansion. Draco reclined in his fancy, black leather sofa for a few minutes, before he tired rather quickly of that activity and decided instead to go take her up on her offer.

* * *

"_Percy_? _Really_?" asked Ginny skeptically, a perfectly plucked dark red eyebrow arched over one eye.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, stretching out across the comfortable brown couch, her just-shaven legs smooth inside her lazy gray sweatpants. She crossed one over the other, her hair tied back in a messy bun and her light brown eyes surveying Ginny sternly from behind the light purple glasses she wore exclusively at home. "Yes, really," she huffed impatiently, folding her arms across her dark gray tank top. She had not bothered changing before Ginny arrived; she knew that her bossy friend would most likely immediately order her to slip into something more comfortable to begin the 'procedure.'

Ginny held up her hands in mock-surrender, knowing how grouchy Hermione got usually whenever she had to change plans and actually prepare herself. She guessed that if she doubted her older brother's intentions too much, then the date would be canceled, and all possibilities of the two witches becoming in-laws would be obliterated off the face of the earth. "Alright, alright, I was just checking." She hummed as she drummed her dainty, manicured red fingernails on her jawbone thoughtfully. "Well," she drawled out slowly, stalling as she picked up the letter once again and let her own green-brown eyes roam over the words. "This is not a date, per se; but at the same time, it is not just an outing. You need something that says, _I am available and want to have fun_, while at the same time, _I am not a slag, nor am I desperate enough to think this is a date._"

"So…it's _not_ a date?" asked the brunette, merely to double-check. She had sort of created an idea in her mind that this _was_, in fact, somewhat of a date.

Ginny glared at her, motioning for her to shut up, her eyebrows raised as if to say, 'What did I _just_ tell you?' "No, it isn't. Don't get ahead of yourself, 'Mione. Percy does not work that way. Now, if I am not mistaken, you have three or four lovely dresses that would go _splendid_ with this circumstance. If you'll excuse me." With that, the redhead was off the opposite couch and rushing into Hermione's room, no doubt seeking out the aforementioned three dresses.

Hermione was right; mere seconds after her disappearance, Ginny returned, clutching in her hands three dry-clean bags that undoubtedly contained the clothes. The first, she unzipped gingerly to reveal a dashing, shimmery golden dress. It was strapless and reached—as per her experience wearing it—just above her knees. While it was tight, the material that covered the curve of her waist flared out, covering any potential bulges (if, that is, she had any).

Hermione wrinkled her nose almost instinctively. "No, too…sparkly."

Ginny huffed, but the other witch could tell she wasn't far off the mark as her friend unceremoniously dumped it on her previous sofa. "Alright, and this one?"

The second dress was fire truck red, with small sleeves just covering her shoulders. It was, again, tight overall, though it _could_ have been designed to be shapelier. The skirt overlapped, with slight folds at the waist. It was a lovely dress, for sure, but Hermione chose not to say anything until she had seen all the options.

The third and last dress was plain black, though that is not to say it was unattractive. It had a loose skirt and a modest neckline, with an interesting design for a collar. It was one of Hermione's preferred dresses, but she had her reserves about it. After all, all her shoes and purses managed to match perfectly with it. She was already predisposed, _just_ for that, to liking it!

"I don't know…" she muttered, hesitantly. The golden one was definitely out, but she really liked both of her options. Both women sat silently for a minute, before Ginny jumped up so suddenly it seemed like she'd been stuck by a pin.

"How about," she began dramatically, rushing into Hermione's bathroom—once again, without bothering to ask for permission—"I make you up, and then we see which dress makes you look sexier?!"

"_Ginny_!" sighed Hermione, exasperated with her friend's near-catatonic enthusiasm. "Merlin, he's your _brother_!"

"Oh, who cares?" shrugged the redhead nonchalantly, kneeling by Hermione as she pulled out a series of blushes and eye shadows and Merlin knows what else from a makeup bag. "He _needs_ to shag."

* * *

The restaurant at which Percy had made the reservation was a vast, yet pleasant, contrast to the one he had taken Hermione on their last encounter. It was a quaint establishment concealed within Hogsmeade, with a small amount of tables and a wide bar towards the back. It was very dimly lit by wine-red candles, which gave everything a reddish glow. _How clever_, mused the brunette witch, following her 'date' and the maître d' to a large table for six in the center of the restaurant. She knew, as did the owner of the place quite evidently, that the color red was an advisable scheme for any dining establishment, since it tended to induce more hunger.

"Enjoy your dinner," said the raven-haired woman, smiling pleasantly at the two of them as she placed menus before them. "Your waiter will be out in a moment. If you need me personally, my name is Crystal Chu." It was not lost on Hermione the lingering look that this Crystal gave Percy, though the latter was blatantly oblivious, by the way he dove right into the pages of the menu.

Hermione nervously ran her hands over her thighs, smoothing her skirt. In the end, she had listened to Ginny's rather rowdy instincts, and so she found herself in the red dress, a black belt better outlining her curvy shape. Her hair, as per her own request, was still curly—though Gin had also had a say in this, charming it into a bun, with wavy bangs hanging over her eyes, which were smoky and sultry, while her lips were the same brilliant red as her dress and handbag. As for shoes, Ginny had talked her out of black flats, instead lending her what seemed to be the highest pair of white heels in the younger woman's possession. She was reminded of this detail as she tried to cross her legs primly under the table, only to realize that, due to the shoes' excessive height, she had to rest her heel more forwards than she deemed comfortable. As she shuddered, she suddenly thanked Ginny's insistence on the one dress with sleeves.

She hated the thick silence that appeared to have fallen upon the pair, hated how inexperienced she felt. She had not gone on a date in nearly three years, Merlin help her! She'd all but forgotten how to socialize, her skills merely salvaged by the need to speak one-on-one with her clients. Percy, however, seemed perfectly comfortable not speaking as he flipped studiously through the menu. She decided to do the same.

It felt like ages before they had both decided on what to order. After Nikolai, the rather attractive Belgic waiter, left with their menus to fetch the expensive elf wine they had ordered, Percy folded his hands upon the table, smiling warmly at Hermione. "How has work been?" he asked her, taking a polite sip of his water.

She met his eyes after a second, returning his smile half-heartedly. She knew he was asking out of politeness, rather than genuine curiosity. Still, she was thankful for the question, knowing that it isn't typically his nature to ask before telling. "Utterly ordinary," she confessed, folding her napkin primly over her lap. "Though surprisingly, it's not entirely challenging to maintain a civil conversation with Malfoy." _If you disregard his blatant rejection to my invitation to a lunch,_ she thought haughtily, hoping that her facial expression didn't give away her inner resentment.

Percy smiled distractedly, draping his own cloth over his pants. "Sounds lovely," he replied absently. Though she had already suspected as much, it still bothered her a bit to see that he truly was paying no attention to her, whatsoever. Still, she pursed her lips, watching him as he fidgeted with his tie.

Finally, she put him out of his misery. "So how is your little Ghost Problem?" she inquired, allowing her elbows to rest on the table and locking her fingers together to place her chin upon them, leaning forwards with not completely feigned interest. "I take it since you were at dinner stage with them, that it is going well?"

He cleared his throat, obviously relieved that they now had a firm, solid subject to talk about. "You do recall that I spoke about Melanie Boggit, and her potential contributions to our case?" he retaliated, lifting an oddly perfect rust-coloured eyebrow. When the witch nodded, he continued, "Well, her evidence has been the basis of our case! She is incredibly useful for our issue."

Hermione, the polite listener she had been raised to be, sat quietly as Percy ranted for ten consecutive minutes about how not only would they enforce a strict regiment to regulate ghost activities at Hogwarts, but also a new regulation on potions will be established. Honestly, though she had agreed to go on this "date" with him, she almost found herself wishing it was over already.

* * *

"Malfoy, I'm warning you—" began Ginny, her angry pale head bobbing in Draco's Floo. He watched her, feeling ridiculously entertained at the prospect of the tiny witch yelling at him from a fireplace. She didn't have to warn him again; she had already done so several times throughout the afternoon.

"Relax, Little Red"—Ginny huffed at her Slytherin nickname—"I'll leave my wand behind." As if to prove his point, he took it out of the inside pocket of his jacket, dangling it between his thumb and forefinger before dropping it on the floor by his feet. Ginny's eyebrow rose in suspicion, and he theatrically wiped his hands off. "See? No harm done."

"You're _drunk_, and you're going to crash my best friend's date," she all but growled—_Alright, Baby Hormones,_ she thought to herself victoriously, _do your bloody job already_—as, on the other end of the connection, real-life Ginny placed her dainty hands on her not-so-dainty waist. "Yes, of _course_ there's no harm done!" she spat sarcastically.

Draco's eyes narrowed darkly, and he snarled, "It is not a _date_. None of you Weasleys are heterosexual except for you, and, judging by your protection of Hermione, I might just have to reconsider." As an afterthought, before she could bite back, he added, "Also, I'm not drunk."

"There is a bloody bottle of Firewhisky on the flo—_dammit_, why the fuck did I even tell you anything?" she asked herself, and Draco was startled as well as amused to see a small hand appear in the fire, smacking her on her forehead. "You know what, Malfoy? Do whatever the _fuck_ you want. But if I hear you so much as _bumped_ into them at the restaurant, I will personally castrate you!"

"Okay, first of all," he sneered, not feeling even remotely threatened by the little ginger, "one bottle of Ogden's does not constitute as drunk, especially if I split it with Zabini. Second, that restaurant is as tight as that stick up your arse"—Ginny's lip curled at the crude comment—"so I would bump into just about _anyone_. And third, good Merlin, if that's what it takes to not get someone pregnant like you, then my privates are ready." He almost waited for her to take the bait, but couldn't help adding, "Just wait until I take Granger for a ride."

"_YOU BLOODY BASTARD!_" screamed the enraged witch on the other side, throwing something—was that a _book_?—into the fire in hopes of hitting Malfoy upside the head. "I do _not_ have a stick up my arse, the Chateau de Lune is _not_ that tight, and you are _not_ taking—_FUCK YOU!_" She was practically mauve with anger as she realized what she'd just done. She was just grabbing another book to chuck at the blond's head when he signed off.

"Chateau de Lune, thanks Ginger!" he called out cheerfully before disappearing. Ginny was capable of murder right then.

* * *

"Sir?"

Percy looked up at the waiter, and Hermione took a grateful sip of her drink. She had just gotten her ear talked off by the redhead, and was moments away from _AK_ing herself right then and there. It was Nikolai, the Belgian Wonder (or so Ginny would have undoubtedly christened him), and he was only looking at Percy. The Ministry worker turned briefly to Hermione, holding up a finger as he shifted in his seat to face Nikolai. "Yes?"

"You have an owl. From, er…" He looked down at a piece of paper clutched in his hands before continuing. "From Gustavo Kapur, regarding Pete."

"Peeves," Percy corrected him automatically, springing up from his seat. Hermione, alarmed, stared at him with wide eyes. The git seemed to understand that she would not stand for this; nevertheless, he said, "I am terribly sorry, Hermione, but this is very important business. Surely you understand?"

_I do,_ Hermione thought to herself reassuringly. But it was still rather rude to just up and leave one's date before the entrees were brought in! Still, she nodded tightly, not wanting to be the one to spoil the evening any further, and watched him make five more apologies before he was far enough away for her to think about hexing him without having to worry whether or not he is a Legilimens.

Not five minutes after her date unceremoniously left her behind, Nikolai was back at the table, a wizard trailing after him, laughing at something he'd said. When they neared the table, Hermione almost dove underneath the tablecloth with shock. Behind the Belgian Wonder was none other than Draco Malfoy, looking handsome as usual, but with a certain ruggedness to his typically immaculate complexion. It was almost as if he'd been drinking beforehand. Her eyes widened with unprecedented shock as he took a seat across from her, calm as you please, and Nikolai poured a glass of wine for the git.

"Sorry, that seat is taken," she ground out through gritted teeth, eyes darting back and forth to make sure nobody was paying them any attention.

"Not anymore," he informed her, matter-of-factly.

She merely gaped at him. How could he be so bloody infuriating after uttering only two words?! "No, it _is_, he's just stepped out—"

"No, he hasn't," Draco asserted, now making direct eye contact with her. "He is currently Apparating to the Ministry, having been called to a nonexistent meeting with his superiors regarding Peeves and his reign of terror at Hogwarts."

"How do you know—wait, _nonexistent_?" Hermione asked, needing some serious clarification. How did he know about the Ghost Problem? And what the bloody hell did he mean by the 'nonexistent meeting'? "Did you send the owl, Malfoy?"

He scoffed; the blond git actually _scoffed_! The bloody _nerve_! "Of course not. I don't think I even own an owl anymore. Nikolai here," he gestured to the attractive waiter, who had the decency to avoid Hermione's gaze, "kindly misinformed your companion."

"Obviously," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms and huffing indignantly. How dare Malfoy try to hijack her date! Granted, it was not going swimmingly or anything, but she still would have liked to continue it! She glowered at the former Slytherin, but he did not once make to leave. "Are you planning on staying here the entire evening?" she demanded impatiently, wanting to either be left alone or be able to leave the restaurant.

Now that the food had arrived, Draco busied himself with snatching some oysters into his own plate. Without looking up, he answered, "As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Are you planning on being this rude to your _date_ the entire evening?"

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Cue the pitchforks and the mobs storming down my apartment building, but I really am so sorry for delaying this update! I'm not even going to bullshit and say I've been studying for finals, because I only had one, but I have been busy, and this was a terribly difficult chapter to write, for some reason. Originally I wasn't going to split it, but altogether it would be far too long for just one chapter. There's bad and good news about this.**

**The bad news is that chapter 8 will take a while, because I'm visiting family and I'm not sure if there's wifi there. Also, if this chapter was difficult, the next will be downright impossible. **

**The good news is that chapter 10 (my favorite by far) is done. No, not chapter 9, chapter 10.**

**Okay, I have bored you all long enough with this lengthy A/N. Just wanted to offer my apologies for delaying this! **

**Remember though, I'd update faster with more reviews (: **

**Love,**

**TGBW**


	9. Wine and Dine 'Em (Part 2)

_How dare Malfoy try to hijack her date! Granted, it was not going swimmingly or anything, but she still would have liked to continue it! She glowered at the former Slytherin, but he did not once make to leave. "Are you planning on staying here the entire evening?" she demanded impatiently, wanting to either be left alone or be able to leave the restaurant. _

_Now that the food had arrived, Draco busied himself with snatching some oysters into his own plate. Without looking up, he answered, "As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Are you planning on being this rude to your date the entire evening?" _

Hermione stared at him incredulously, not even bothering to look down and see that they had brought her the wrong platter. When she saw that he wasn't even looking up at her, or paying any other form of attention to her, she just about exploded. "What the bloody hell?! Malfoy, I don't know who you think you are, but you can_not_ just barge into my dinner and replace my date! If you had any bloody manners, you would _know_ that!"

She wanted to hit him upside the head with her plate, for all he did was chuckle silently to himself and continue enjoying his meal as if nothing was wrong, as if this were all part of routine. Finally, after he swallowed the mouthful he'd just stuffed himself with, he looked up at her, a roguish expression across his mischievous features. "Now, now, Miss Granger," he nagged her jokingly, using his fork to gesture towards her own dish. "You wouldn't want your food to get cold, now would you?"

"_Urg!_" she all but screamed, grabbing her purse and slamming her napkin on the table. "You know what? I was actually looking forward to this dinner, it's my first…but _no_, of course, I couldn't have this for myself, now could I?" As she glared at him, she faintly thought she imagined a headful of ginger hair instead of the platinum blond that was there in reality. "But fine. _Fine!_ Take our reservation, take my dinner, owl me with the receipt and I'll pay you back. Just…just…" She shook her head in frustration, starting to walk away. Draco looked around, bewildered by her outburst, before politely wiping the corner of his mouth and, after assuring the stunned waitress that they would be back to finish their meal, running out after her.

She hadn't been able to get far—but then again, he hadn't expected her to. Her heels were far too tall to have made it anywhere in such a short amount of time.

"Granger, wait!"

She froze, one of her hands, which was curled into a tight, knuckle-whitening fist, pressed against her thigh, where she could acutely feel her wand. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her nostrils flared as she tried to take in deep breaths and calm herself down. "What," she gritted out through clenched teeth. Honestly, she knew she was overreacting, but still! He was a rude, poisonous little git!

He reached her, and was about to touch her arm when he stopped himself. Did he really, _really_ want to die so young? "Look, I…" he began unsurely. "I am _sorry_," he managed to say, sounding impressively sincere, "that I hijacked your date tonight…"

"No, you're not," Hermione pointed out, turning around to face him. Her lips twitched, but he wasn't sure whether it was in amusement or anger.

He winced, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm not!" he admitted, pacing a bit, his face turned up towards the night sky. He took a breath before turning back towards the expectant witch. "_But_, I must say that I make much more fascinating conversation than Arsey Weasel," he insisted, _now_ sounding genuine.

"His name is _Per_—" she began to correct him, before sighing, having noticed its futility. "Why are you doing this, Malfoy?"

It was the way she was standing—arms crossed, one foot crossed in front of the other like a shy schoolgirl, with a rather exhausted face—that made Draco bite back any snarky remarks he might've managed, instead having him opt for a straight answer. "It's the lunch."

She stared at him for a couple of beats, expecting some sort of clearer explanation. When none was forthcoming, she leaned forwards, as if she feared she might've actually misunderstood. "I beg your pardon?"

"The lunch," he sighed. "You asked me to accompany you to lunch last month, and I shot you down…rather rudely, I must say."

"Yes," Hermione snapped angrily, "and you are ever so courteous to remind me of that incident now."

"But I had my reasons," he argued, not liking the fact that she thought he was absolutely to blame. He held out his hands, as if he were pleading with her to be reasonable. "And now, I want to make it up to you. Because you've been so…" He looked around, making sure no wandering eyes (or ears) were nearby, before he continued. "So understanding about my V Problem."

They both resisted the urge to point out that that sounded incredibly as if Draco was a hermaphrodite.

"Alright," Hermione muttered begrudgingly, crossing her arms and resuming her rather haughty demeanour. She took a couple of steps towards him, stopping an arm's length away. She took out her wand and jabbed it at his chest, ignoring his slight wince when a few sparks were emitted from the end. "But if you so much as tiptoe towards the line, you will wish Blaise had never forced you into counselling in the first place," she warned, walking past him and back into the restaurant.

Resuming their seats in what was supposed to be Percy and Hermione's table, Draco waved Nikolai over. "Another glass for the lady," he said courteously, glancing over at Hermione when she just stared at him. "What?" he asked; it was getting rather unnerving, if he said so himself.

"You're mental, you know that?" she asked him with a raised eyebrow. It was all so surreal; never in a million years would she have imagined herself just hanging out with Draco Malfoy, in a public restaurant, acting almost—dare she say it—civil. In fact, not even now, that she was seeing him weekly for her job, had she expected to find herself in such a situation as this. It was absolutely ludicrous; Harry would have a cow, and Ginny…well, Ginny was something else. She could practically hear her best friend shouting encouragements about "getting some" from Malfoy, completely oblivious to her claims that they weren't even friends.

He rolled his eyes as, once again, he focused on his food. "The oysters are decent," he noted, pointing at the larger platter of oysters with his fork. "Are you going to have some, or have I unwittingly signed myself up for a dinner with Hogwarts' very own Muggle-born Know-It-All?"

She let out an exasperated sigh before reluctantly serving herself some oysters, trying one. Percy had ordered—annoyingly enough, he'd even ordered for _both_ of them, so she'd hardly had a say in the matter—and so she had to admit, he had pretty good taste. She gave Nikolai a slight smile as he poured her wine, and, after having tried a sip of it—elf wine, she could tell—she looked at the blond git, resisting the urge to shove all of the oysters into his mouth. "Was the manor really _that_ boring, that you'd rather come have dinner with me?" she asked.

He chewed for a bit, finally swallowing the bite of food he had in his mouth, before answering. "I was actually showing some pureblood proprietors around the land behind the manor," he informed her, drinking from his wine before focusing his attention back to her. "I've been hoping to sell it off for a while, now."

She raised a delicate eyebrow at this new piece of information. The land, which she'd obviously read about, was supposedly one of the largest pieces of private property in wizarding Europe. It would have to take more than one day to tour all of it. So maybe…She shared a small smile. "Is that why you said no, when I asked you to lunch?"

He scoffed, as if it was the most ridiculous notion he'd ever heard of—but she didn't miss the quick twitch on the corner of his lips, as if he were fighting off a smirk. She decided not to press it, instead settling for his vague answer.

For the first fifteen minutes of the meal, they kept stealing secret, unnoticed glances of each other. Hermione noticed the way Draco would wrinkle his nose as he cut his food, and he would always, _always_, blink in the first second the food was in his mouth. When he took a sip of his wine, he stared straight at the bottom of the glass, and when he put it down he would let out a breath, as if it had somewhat tired him. Whenever they made accidental direct eye contact, he would purse his lips, the edges hinting at a slight crescent, almost as if he was giving her a tight-lipped smile. He would furrow his eyebrows when he wiped his mouth, and whenever he checked his watch, he would shake his arm first, letting the loose wristwatch fall to the very wrist.

Draco noticed the way Hermione gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug every time she reached for the wineglass, as if she were rolling her shoulders in preparation for the sip. There were moments in which she would stare right over his shoulder, and he could feel himself tense up, thinking perhaps that Weasley had returned, most likely fuming and ready to hex him senseless. Sometimes, when she caught him looking, a faint blush would spread from her nose over her cheeks, tingeing them with a warm rosy colour, and she would flash him a small smile before returning her gaze swiftly towards the food before her. If she hadn't had that particularly feisty display of attitude before they both settled down to have a peaceful dinner, or if he hadn't known her back during their school years, he would've sworn that she was naturally and typically this timid and quiet. As it was, however, he knew she was capable of being—pardon his mental French—quite the bitchy lioness. Why, then, was she acting so shyly at the moment?

"So," he said finally, in a desperate attempt to break the ice around their extremely awkward silence.

"So," she repeated, folding her hands on her lap when Nikolai came to take their plates away.

He studied her for a moment before saying, "So I heard about your little Save the Elves stage back in fourth year." He allowed himself a smirk, and then carried on. "Did any good ever come out of it?"

Her eyes lit up with the joy of finally having something to talk about. "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, leaning forwards and adjusting her chair closer to the table. She opted to ignore the way he had phrased it; it was more complex than a "Save the Elves stage." "I am actually calling in a few favours from some friends of mine at the Ministry," she told him, "and was going to start the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare." Then she wrinkled her nose, as a new thought arrived to her overly crowded brain. "You're still employing house elves, aren't you?"

He shrugged noncommittally, rolling his eyes when she frowned. "Alright, yes, I have one house elf working for me back at the manor," he admitted, much to her chagrin. Then he added quickly in his defence, "But, I did offer Dipp some clothes before."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously; she didn't really believe him, to be honest. He didn't seem the type to be altruistic, especially towards elves, and she had to wonder how genuine the offer had seemed. "And what did Dipp say?" she asked cautiously.

Again, his response was merely a shrug. "He just about wet himself with tears," he confessed, sounding surprisingly sincere. "Trust me when I say, I offered him his freedom. He's the one that doesn't want to go." After a few more seconds, during which he could sense the disapproval in her gaze, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "If you want, you can go ask him yourself, you meddlesome optimist."

She grinned at his description of her—it was much better than Mudblood, in any case—and even allowed herself a small, amused chuckle at his invitation. "It's alright, Malfoy, I'll take your word for it," she said, a trace of laughter in her voice. "But anyway, you could redeem yourself if you decided to be altruistic for once and donate money to the cause?" She'd said this in a completely joking manner, but after the words had left her mouth she realized she was sort of hoping he'd agree.

Unfortunately, he zoomed in on her choice of words. "Altruistic for _once_?" he asked her indignantly, looking personally insulted by the assumption that he hadn't donated anything, or been altruistic before. Just because his charitable work wasn't as advertised as whatever the hell Saint Potter was up to, didn't mean he was just selfishly counting his galleons whenever he had spare time. He'd spent a lot of his money in shelters for the more affected victims of the war. Needless to say, though he was still a Slytherin at heart, he had a very guilty conscience, and enough money to placate it. "I'll have you know," he informed her, "I am a _very_ altruistic man. I deserve a medal!"

She laughed; the little witch actually _laughed_! "Oh, yeah," she reassured him sarcastically, "no ulterior motives there. People shouldn't do things because they want a medal; they should do them because it feels good."

Draco scoffed in disbelief, not trusting what she was saying for even a second. "Oh, like _you_ haven't done anything for purely selfish reasons," he baited her, crossing his arms immaturely. When she fixed him with a steady smile, his assured demeanour faltered, and his eyes widened with surprise. "Come off it, now! What about defeating old Voldy? Surely you were thinking of your own protection!"

She glared at him playfully. "You make it sound like I'm the only Muggle-born!" she protested, a glint in her eyes. She loved bantering like this. No offense to harry, but he tended to agree with her, and she never got the satisfaction of verbal sparring. Now, however, she felt she'd met her match, so to speak. "It may surprise you, but putting my life in danger for several months in order to defeat one of the darkest wizards of all times is _not_ what is typically constituted as selfish."

He threw his head back as he let out a laugh, drawing several people's attentions towards their table. He could care less; he'd been so cooped up in the manor or at bars or with total bimbos, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an intellectual argument.

_Almost_.

"Although," she admitted, her demeanour changing abruptly to a more anxious, fidgety front, "what we're doing is not entirely selfless."

He raised a curious eyebrow, wordlessly prompting her to go on.

She sighed. "Counselling you, I mean. I'm benefitting from this deal as well," she announced to him somewhat sheepishly.

He smirked at her; this was too obviously an unwitting invitation for one of his snarky remarks. "Yes, yes, I know," he joked; "you get to bask in my presence. Don't think I wasn't already aware of this, Granger."

She playfully smacked his arm with her napkin. "Not funny!" she protested, though her giggling gave it away. She looked around, hoping that nobody had seen her rather immature display, and folded the napkin back on her legs. Then she cleared her throat before speaking again. "What I was _going_ to say is, you're actually helping me with my research."

This time, both of his pale eyebrows went up in shock. "I am?" he clarified.

She nodded, smiling slightly. "Yes, you are. See, I'm writing a book on half-wizard specimen of all kinds—and trust me when I say I have found the oddest combinations. A half-centaur, a half-nymph, a half-faerie, a half-merperson. But, and this is where you help me, my research has been disappointingly flat when it comes to half-blooded Veelas. The only other person that could've helped me was Apolline Delacour, Fleur's mother, and due to the age difference and the language barriers, her information was not too awfully helpful. So, when Mr Wolbecker told me of your situation, I jumped on it not only to actually help you, but," she confessed guiltily, "also to gather some more research."

Draco's expression remained stoic for a moment, before he relented and nodded politely. "Only you would consider writing a book as selfish," he told her, his face breaking into yet another one of his infamous smirks. He leaned forward, propping his elbows up on the table with interest. "Alright, well, I already know you're using my incredible wit for your book, so I might as well hear more about it."

She rolled her eyes at his sarcastic comment; was it so hard for him to just admit that he was curious about her latest project? "It'll be titled _One Half Wizard, Two Halves Magical,_" she informed him, failing to notice his amused reaction when her eyes gained that brightness that only surfaced whenever she was talking about something academic. "It's completely based on research I've done myself, whether by reading a variety of sources or by interviewing some characters that I have met or heard about, such as yourself or Mrs Delacour. It's nonfiction, obviously, and each chapter is dedicated to a certain specimen."

"When are you planning on finishing it?" he asked her, genuinely interested by then. He hadn't heard of anyone in the wizarding world bothering to read up on anything of the sort, and found it kind of fascinating that someone he knew personally would breach this magical barrier.

"Well," she admitted, fidgeting in her seat, "I'm not certain. I want to have finished it by my next birthday, but," with that she shrugged. "Who knows."

He sighed. _I can't believe I'm saying this, but,_ "I'm sure your book will be a success," he told her grudgingly. When her face was promptly lit by a wide smile, he almost bit back the next part, "But if you ever tell anyone I said that, you're done."

She raised her hands mock-defensively. "Goodness, alright, alright! I'll completely forget the fact that you came perilously close to giving me a compliment," she joked, still smiling.

He straightened his tie, pretending to be serious. "Good, because I have a reputation to maintain," he stated haughtily, though he couldn't help but smirk as well.

She sighed, feeling the elation seep out of her pores by then. "But first I'd have to find a publisher," she told him. She knew the war was over and their side had won and all, but many magical publishers—especially the renowned ones, and the academic ones—were extremely expensive and somewhat still prejudiced against those of impure blood. She didn't take personal offense (all of that was beneath her, anyway) but she knew she'd have a bit of a hard time getting her book published. All the same, she wanted to try.

He shook his head reassuringly. "Don't worry about it. Nobody could resist publishing your brainchild," he told her, not a trace of sarcasm to be found in his voice. She found some comfort in his words, until she realized it had been a dig at her reputation of being a bookworm. She didn't mind, of course, since she'd long come to terms with that label and now bore it quite proudly.

She chanced a glance down at his wristwatch, and was shocked to find it was almost nine. _Nine_! Rowan would be starving without her!

"Oh, I'm sorry, Malfoy, but it's a bit late," she began apologizing clumsily, wiping any remainder of food off of the corners of her mouth with her white napkin. She dug around inside her purse for her money, but Malfoy's hand, outstretched over the table, promptly stopped her.

"A gentleman should always pay for the dinner," he told her somewhat condescendingly, reaching into his own pocket to bring out his wallet.

She smiled; she couldn't help taking the bait. "Oh, well make sure to thank the gentleman for me," she told him jokingly, still stubbornly bringing out a handful of galleons. When he fixed her with an exasperated glare, she full on grinned and held out three galleons. "At least let me pay the tip, okay?"

He made no effort to hide his staring at the change. "Bloody hell, Granger, did I miss the part in which Nikolai sung and danced for us? That's a lot, don't you think?"

"Don't start, Malfoy," she groaned, but she still tucked one back into her purse once more. "It's my money, I can do whatever I want with it."

"See, this is why you have to work and I don't," he goaded, waving Nikolai over to bring the bill.

She rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything, as they paid and left Nikolai his generous tip.

Once outside near the apparition point, Hermione turned to face him hesitantly. "Well—" she began, just as he started, "So—" They both smiled, and Draco gestured to Hermione to carry on.

"Thank you for a surprisingly good evening," she told him, nodding. He bobbed his head once in reply, and she continued, "I'll be seeing you on Tuesday, then." _I'll be seeing you Tuesday?_ she mentally groaned. Was she a teenager again or something?

He nodded dutifully, giving away a small smile. "This was a nice dinner, Granger, we should do this again sometime," he told her. He almost vomited. _What am I now, a Hufflepuff? _Even non-dates were usually spur of the moment decisions; he never hinted to see each other again. To make up for the moment, he also added awkwardly, "You're not bad when you're not being insufferable, you know?"

She rolled her eyes, thankful that he'd overlooked her idiocy. "Well, you're not too bad yourself when you're not being a sarcastic git," she retaliated playfully, starting to take a few steps back. "Alright, I've got to go," she announced, starting to turn around.

"Alright, I'll see you on Tuesday," he called out after her, not making to move. He stood there, watching her; and just before she turned to Disapparate, he yelled out, "Hey, Granger?"

She only acknowledged him with a bewildered expression and her head turning towards him.

"That dress is bloody attractive," he called out wolfishly, grinning as she blushed furiously and left. It was only his Veela instinct to get into her pants—or dress, for that matter. Nothing more. Nothing.

And that was exactly what she tried to tell herself as she arrived at her house seconds later.

* * *

"Hermione? So sorry, there was a misunderstanding, but when I tried to come back, the wards of the restaurant wouldn't let me in," began the redheaded Ministry official as he arrived only minutes after Hermione and Draco had left. Seated at their table was a brunet wizard, sharing a delectable pasta with his attractive date. They were both staring up at him like he was a lunatic.

"My apologies, enjoy your dinner," Percy backed off sheepishly, turning and almost running into Nikolai, who was carrying a large silver tray with many plates piled on them. "Sir, excuse me," asked the redhead, following Nikolai as he set the plates on the counter that headed into the kitchen. "You remember the witch that was here with me three hours ago? Any chance you might know where she is?"

"The lady just left," Nikolai informed him carelessly, barely sparing Percy a second glance.

A bit put off, Percy turned to walk away; but not before saying in a frustrated tone, "That was most unhelpful of you. And for the record, you may want to check your wards. They are being awfully discriminatory; I'll have you know, I couldn't even come into the restaurant a few hours ago!"

Nikolai nodded his head, again not turning to look at Percy. "I'll tell the owner; thank you for the tip," he said, chuckling to himself as the redhead stormed off.

The owner wouldn't be hearing a thing. But he'd sure be pleasantly surprised with the generous donation that the Malfoy heir had decided to give in exchange for a slight shift in the restaurant security.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so so so so so so so so so sorry! This chapter actually did pose a bit of difficulty, but I'll spare you the details.**

**Anyway, thank you to the reviewers for the last chapter! I hope this one lived up to your expectations :) Please please leave a review! Good, bad, or vague, whatever, your comments are still appreciated :)**

**Also, my tumblr is thegoofybookworm, just in case you want to follow, and I think I'll be posting the outfits for the chapters, starting with this one for Hermione's :) Thank you!**

**Love always,**

**TGBW**


	10. Stag

"'Mione? You home?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, pinning her messy curls up in a bun as she turned the corner to walk into the living room. The fireplace, predictably green, served as an entrance for a fully dressed Ginny, who, despite her best efforts of wearing a baby-doll, white shirt, still managed to show her very pregnant belly. "Yes, _please_ come in," she drawled sarcastically, not for the first time wondering when she had begun to sound so much like Draco.

It wasn't that she didn't want Ginny to come over. In fact, she'd been expecting it. It was a mere week before the ball, and the mysterious student Ginny had owled to take her still had not made an appearance. Hermione, in the meanwhile, had been subtly needling Percy into asking her, to no avail. It seemed that the hard-headed, studious Weasley had other things on his mind than a ball organised for another class. Besides, to be honest, Hermione doubted how much fun the curly-haired redhead could be in a social scene.

"Oh, don't even act like you want me to leave," Ginny groaned, dumping herself onto the sofa. One hand automatically covered her tummy, rubbing it as she crossed her ankles. Hermione stifled a laugh; they had learned, rather the hard way, that a pregnant Ginny should not try to cross her legs anymore. She pointed at the coffee table, which was cluttered with papers. "Is this for your book?"

"It _is_, actually," Hermione asserted, rushing to clear the table. She ignored Ginny's insistences that the mess was forgiven, and took everything into the official office of the apartment. Her living space was a small studio apartment, with an office, kitchen, laundry and dining and living room, and a bedroom. Oh, and two bathrooms. Very small, but fortunately practical. The brunette bookworm took the opportunity to quickly change out of her sweats, instead opting for a grey tank top and dark, bell-bottom jeans. Her hair remained in a bun, but she brushed it back somewhat with a headband.

She re-emerged into the living room, only to find Ginny studying a stray piece of parchment she'd forgotten to gather up with the rest of the mess. "Sorry about that," she commented sheepishly, snatching it out of her friend's pale hands. Ginny glared at her balefully, but made no remark. "I wasn't really expecting guests."

"I'll say," Ginny muttered moodily, looking across the table as Hermione took a seat opposite her. Once they were both sitting down comfortably, Ginny leaned forwards as far as she could, her eyes sparking with excitement. "Alright, so about the Alumni Ball—"

"I've told you already, Gin, I'm going by myself," Hermione drawled tiredly, exhausted of repeating herself. Honestly, she was fine without a date! Just because she'd shown up to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum did not mean she desperately wanted to be _some_body's arm candy.

Ginny rolled her eyes, obviously not accepting this as a proper answer. Merlin knew her friend was more than a little self-sacrificing; if she got even the smallest inkling that her loneliness would upset anyone, she would bury it down and force a smile upon her face. This, more than anything, was killing her inside. Besides, the redhead wasn't sure whether or not her brother would show up. Of course, they were divorced, and the youngest Weasley could hardly begrudge her brother happiness. However, she knew that they were both still broken up about the divorce, and wanted nothing more than to alleviate some of the awkwardness. Which was why, having predicted Hermione's on-going insistence about not having a date, she'd gone out of her way to owl some of her acquaintances from school.

"Well, seeing as Percy's going to be too busy to attend," she began tentatively, refusing to be shot down from the get-go, "I was _thinking_ you should broaden your options."

Hermione raised an eyebrow curiously, while at the same time trying not to seem too interested. She thought it highly unlikely that Ginny had been able to find someone willing to ask her to go to the ball—and, if by some miracle, she _had_, it would be someone unknown to her, a total stranger only jumping on the opportunity to go on a date with _the _Hermione Granger.

Nevertheless, she chose to reply. "Really?" she intoned. "Why don't I believe you?"

Ginny smirked, almost as if she'd been expecting this reaction from her friend. "Because I haven't read the acceptance letter just yet," she responded mischievously, fishing through her purse. She pulled out an envelope which had already been opened, and extracted the letter. She'd owled the man a while ago, and he'd only gotten around to replying earlier that week. Of course, Ginny had held it from Hermione, first making absolute sure that he would show up. Granted, guarantees meant virtually nothing from Quidditch players—this, Ginny knew well—but it still couldn't hurt to be absolutely positive.

Hermione made to grab it—after all, wasn't it_ her _business, and not the redhead's?—but Ginny's Quidditch reflexes beat her, snatching her hand away as she began reading aloud. "_Dear Gin__**ny**_," she began, and by her emphasis on the second syllable Hermione could tell that this unknown stranger had written out her full first name, "_How good it is to hear from you again! I must admit, I was a bit surprised when I got your letter, but here is your reply nevertheless._

"_I apologize for having delayed this response, but, as you may or may not know, the Falmouth Falcons had a game series this month, so I could not reply immediately. I have not received an invitation to the alumni ball—as I graduated in 1997—but I have heard of it, and it most certainly interested me. I am currently not seeing anyone, nor do I plan to, but I would be most glad to escort your lovely friend to the ball—_"

"_Ginny_!" Hermione wailed dramatically, extremely embarrassed. How pathetic must this stranger think she is?! Well, whoever he was, that is.

Ginny held up a hand, indicating that she was not quite finished. Hermione's face flushed bright pink with embarrassment. "_It has been a while since I've heard from Mrs Weasley—or Ms Granger, as I have heard not too recently. In any case, have her owl me her details so that I may pick her up at her place_—don't worry," Ginny interrupted the reading with her own words, "I've already told him you'll be coming with Harry and me—_and I will see you both at the ball._"

Hermione was positively furious by then. _Who _was this stranger, and what made Ginny think she possessed the right to ask him for her? "Ginevra Potter, if you don't tell me who it is _this instant_, I swear I will hex you and that unnamed child ten ways from Sunday!"

Ginny's grin only widened; she'd known her friend would be most curious as to who it was, and so she'd purposely withheld any part of the letter that would be a dead giveaway. "First you'll say yes or no!" she insisted, keeping the letter away from her reach. When Hermione kept lunging for it, she gave up and tucked it underneath her, watching with immature amusement as the bookworm crossed her arms and sat down again.

"Why did you take this liberty, anyways?" Hermione demanded, though she'd calmed down considerably. "Maybe someone else was about to ask me!"

"Yeah? Like who?" Ginny retaliated defiantly, knowing fully well that there was nobody else Hermione would've been considering. "_Malfoy_?" she added sarcastically.

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe."

The redhead's eyes widened, amazed. "No, you're _kidding_. He did _not _ask you to the ball!"

"Maybe not," Hermione muttered, slightly miffed, "but he could've been _planning_ to…"

"Alright," Ginny relented, prepared to offer her conditions. She knew Malfoy was not planning to ask Hermione—that was not the way the blond rolled, this she knew from countless magazines—but she didn't want her friend to seem any more pathetic than she must've already felt. "Here's a deal for you. Owl me by Thursday, saying one of two things. Either you tell me you are going with Malfoy, or you accept this person's invitation."

"You mean yours?" Hermione retorted moodily under her breath. Ginny rolled her eyes and stuck her hand out, hoping that the brunette would shake it and seal the deal. "Don't I get a third option? Can't I just go stag?"

"_No_body's going stag, 'Mione," Ginny informed her, having already confirmed this. Except for her brother (so far), everyone else was going with a date, whether it be a boyfriend or girlfriend, a spouse, or a friend. "You'll show up with Harry and me, and then you can go meet your date—whoever it may be," she added hurriedly after seeing the exasperated look on Hermione's face. "Do we have a deal?"

"I'm not going to impose on you and Harry," Hermione told her stubbornly, having made up her mind. She refused to be the third wheel. Ginny nodded, accepting this—and, honestly, having sort of predicted this—but still held out her hand, waiting for a shake. Reluctantly, Hermione shook it, and Ginny smirked.

"Alright, you conniving witch, now tell me: who wrote that bloody letter?" Hermione insisted tiredly. Ginny's face threatened to split in two as she held out the letter for her friend, and the older witch took it and quickly skipped to the last part: the signature.

A beat. Two. Then,

"You have _got _to be shitting me."

* * *

After the dinner, Draco and Hermione had agreed to start seeing each other more often—in a merely professional, platonic manner, of course. In a highly uncharacteristic turn of events, Draco found himself volunteering to help her with her research for her upcoming book, which often resulted in stiff dinners, formal lunches, and more than one brunch at the manor. Even so, they sometimes veered towards other non-half-blooded-Veela topics, prompting lively debates. They were both especially fond of those, not that they ever let it show. Even at Hogwarts, they were both the only ones that could rile each other up this much, and they both seemed to enjoy the change of intellectual scene. When the brunches took place, however, the pair made sure to steer clear of the drawing room. "Too many memories," Hermione had explained simply.

Of course, Hermione was no fool. She knew that, while inside the office she was immune to any infamous Veela charms, she was completely vulnerable at her house or at his. After some research, however, she discovered that there did, in fact, exist such a thing as anti-Veela charm potions, _Bellus_ _Immunis_, which—much to her relief—was quite simple to make. One small vial before every meeting ensured that she not stray from their strictly professional relationship, and maybe—if her suspicions were correct—budding friendship.

A couple of days before Headmistress McGonagall's alumni ball found the former classmates in a heated debate over the rights of house elves in the Malfoy manor dining room, being waited on—to Hermione's extreme displeasure—by Dipp, who, she was glad to learn, was being fairly paid and _had_, as Draco had assured her during the dinner, been offered more than once to leave his position at the mansion.

"I'm just _saying_," insisted the stubborn blond, his black coffee on the table to his side, forgotten, "house elves _enjoy_ what they do! I'll have you know, there are families that not only offer their elves fair wages, but they also offer them their freedom. _Constantly._ Take it from someone who knows," he added with a knowing glint in his eyes.

"Yes, yes, alright, but," Hermione retaliated impatiently, nearly splitting her porcelain dish with the force she was using to cut her omelette, "this is looking only in the positive sides. In the negatives, there are families that thoroughly abuse their house elves. I mean, they make them iron their _hands_, for Godric's sake!" she squealed, affronted. "Just take poor Kreacher, for instance! The poor elf wished nothing more than to have his severed head put up in the House of Black!"

"Okay, well," Draco replied calmly, taking a long sip of his drink even as Hermione glared at him, waiting. "That's jut Kreacher. I mean, he was fucked up."

"_Malfoy_!" she shrieked angrily, pausing to glower before stuffing a piece of the omelette into her mouth. She didn't want to encourage Dipp's cooking for his master, but bloody hell, that omelette was a thing from the heavens!

"But that doesn't come from their rights, per se," he explained. "That comes from the owners as individuals. If you really want to tackle the problem, it's not by insisting that house elves be free and work when or if they want to. There are virtually no house elves that would agree to these conditions." Hermione was about to respond, until she saw that he was looking at her pointedly. She shut her mouth. "What you need to do is set rules to be followed by those families that still have house elves. Hell, I'll follow those rules, if I must. But you can't confiscate everyone's house elves and force them to stop working in houses."

"And why not?" Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself. Honestly, she realized that he had a point—_A very good point, _she thought to herself—but she didn't want the discussion to end. She wanted to hear his arguments.

"Well, for starters, all the purebloods would hate you," he told her casually, as if she didn't already know that. It was her turn to glare at him pointedly, and he smirked before adding, "Well, more than they do already, Miss Golden Gryffindor you. And secondly, what are the house elves going to do? You'll be condemning them to live on the streets, homelessness, with no food or money."

"They can get a job!" she suggested, purposely playing dumb to spur him on.

He tilted his head back and let out a laugh. "Honestly, Granger, are you daft? Who the hell would hire house elves? Just imagine, little twits running around the Ministry, using—no offence—using bad grammar and barely distinguished English and mucking things up for everyone." There was a pause, and he delivered the punch line. "Alright, sorry, imagine all that, _in pillow cases_—Salazar knows this already happens in the Ministry anyways."

Hermione couldn't hold back the laughter that escaped her lips. He grinned, secretly a bit glad that she had found his joke funny, even though it did insult her workplace. "Very well said, Malfoy," she congratulated him, still laughing a little as she finished off the rest of the omelette. She caught a glimpse of her watch, and quickly stood up, prompting Draco to do the same. "Not to rush anything, but I really must get going. I have some minor paperwork to fill out at the Ministry, and then I need to meet with my superior and Auror Queens, _plus _I'm going to the Longbottoms' for dinner tonight."

Draco shrugged, nonplussed. Sure, he wasn't going to waltz in to Longbottom's house or anything, but he had time to spare and little to do. "I can go with you to the Ministry; I've got some business to do down there as well," he offered casually.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, looking at him a bit suspiciously. _What business does a _Malfoy _have to do at the Ministry? _"Alright, there's space in the floo for both of us," she relented, the corners of her lips upturned in a wannabe smile.

Now it was Draco's turn to give her a funny look. "I'll floo in after you, thanks."

"It's no problem, there's enough—"

"I'm not your boyfriend," he insisted with an air of finality.

* * *

"Good morning, Ms Granger," greeted Hannah, smiling up from her desk where she'd been, up till then, furiously filing some papers into the cabinets lined up underneath the counter. Hermione nodded politely, before walking up to her secretary, her hand automatically held out for messages.

"Morning, Hannah, and I've told you a thousand times to just call me Hermione," she replied, grinning back at the girl. "Have I any messages?"

"Yes; one from Mrs Potter, one from Mr Erikson, one from Mr Wolbecker, and one from your mother," said the secretary, handing Hermione the envelopes. Lowering her voice, she leaned forwards, beckoning her boss to do the same. When the girls were nearly nose to nose, she whispered, "This isn't the first time you come into the office with _him_."

Hermione looked over her shoulder, following Hannah's stern gaze. Her eyes landed on Draco, who was lounging carelessly against a wall. She stifled a laugh at his expression of utter, pained boredom, and turned again to face Hannah, surprised at the girl's bothered face. "Wha—Hannah, we're not doing anything," she insisted, exasperated. They always had this conversation, and Hermione always ended up reminding her that she was already taken—sort of—and would never do that, even to a slightly more bookish git than herself. "We just came from brunch at his house. You've got to admit, the office isn't exactly accommodating," she joked. Hannah still did not look amused. "Okay, fine, think whatever you want. If you really believe me capable of doing _that_…" Her voice trailed off, the sentiment perfectly clear. _I don't want to have to do this, but if you really believe me capable of doing _that_, maybe you ought to find a more moral employer._

Hannah bowed her head, obviously embarrassed about her previous acclamations. "Sorry, Ms Granger, that was uncalled for," she said in lieu of an apology. Hermione nodded, a bit miffed and too bothered to correct her in the title.

"Send a note to Wolbecker saying I will be right there," Hermione instructed, unlocking the door to her office. Like the rest of her private workspace, the doors were immune to magic. Draco followed her inside, already bored. Maybe he _should _have stayed outside, staring at the blank wall, this whole time.

On her desk was the expected stack of files she had to fill out. As per the Ministry's request, her supervisor—and consequently Wolbecker's as well—Erikson had asked for a full monthly progress report beginning in July about Draco Malfoy's behaviour. While the psychological analysis was for her eyes only, they required an update on his temper, his supposed threat to the magical world—having, of course, been an ex-Death Eater as well as a Malfoy—and any dark magic tendencies, not that she'd noticed any thus far. Still, this much she owed in exchange for the opportunity to do her research whilst simultaneously receiving her income. She sat down in her plush chair, pulling out her peacock quill and jotting down her information as quickly as she could. It was now nearly twelve, which was the scheduled time for their meeting, and it was imperative that she not keep Erikson waiting. He'd been the one to order the Mad-Eyes to be planted around her, and she was already testing her boundaries with conducting so many side projects.

Draco sat down on the couch in the meanwhile. "Hey, Granger? Can I borrow a book?" he asked, eyeing her bookshelves. As much as he hated to admit it, he'd rather indulge in some Merlin-awful Muggle book than have to sit there for who knows how long while she filled out her bloody paperwork.

"I don't know, _can _you?" she replied absently, not looking up from her desk. He was sure she was being snarky without actually meaning it; either way, he decided not to correct himself, instead standing up and grabbing a book with or without permission.

As tempted as he was to grab _Pride and Prejudice_, just to bug her, he knew she was really protective of the book, and he wanted to respect her wishes, and—_Aw, fuck it,_ he thought, snatching it from the shelf and immediately cowering away from the wood. Admittedly, he half expected there to be some sort of siren or signal announcing the fact that he'd grabbed the book without permission, much like there had been in the Restricted Section of their library at Hogwarts.

Fortunately, no hysterical wailing came. In fact, she still remained suspiciously buried in her files—not that he intended to figure out why, anyhow. He had no interest whatsoever in her business or job. None. At all. Nor in why on earth she would be meeting with her superior _and _an Auror. Not when he was her only client at the moment. Nope. Not curious at all.

Hermione, on the other hand, hardly noticed that Draco had even spoken up during their time inside the office. She was trying to contain her temper at some of these questions. Draco Malfoy was a client, not someone she was interrogating. The paperwork was ridiculous. _Does he mention, or has he ever mentioned, anything related to Dark Arts? Do you see a tendency in any of these words: Dark Arts, Dark Magic, Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, pureblood, etc.? _As if all their time was spent discussing the resurrection of Voldemort!

Finally fed up, she threw down her quill, refusing to answer any more questions. If Auror Queens was upset with it, he would have to contact her personally and directly, and then—_only _then—would she answer them appropriately. For now, these were not only ridiculous, but also immensely insulting. She'd been hired for one thing, and one thing only: counselling him. Whatever else she did was up to _her_, including the research, the dinners, the brunches, and anything that might not have been mentioned. This was absolutely unnecessary.

"Alright, Malfoy, now I'm—Malfoy? Is that…is that _my_ book?" she asked. Though, surprisingly enough for Draco, she didn't really sound angry. Her voice seemed kind of entertained, actually, as if she found it oddly amusing that he would resort to reading Muggle literature—and slightly effeminate, at that.

He put his hands up defensively, though she did notice that he did not let go of the book. "While you're working, I might as well entertain myself _somehow_," he whined childishly, hiding his actual interest. Why was that her favourite book? Was the bookworm Granger even allowed to have a favourite, or was that like having a mother who had a favourite child?

She nodded. "Alright, but I'm warning you. _One _dog-eared page, and I'll hex you six ways from Sunday!" she told him mock-menacingly, walking towards the door. Before he could ask, she explained, "I'm going to my meeting now. _Stay here._ I'll be back in half an hour."

But then again, when had Malfoys ever listened to Muggle-borns?

* * *

Honestly, he'd tried. He really had tried to do that thing where people immerse themselves so far into whatever book they've got in their hands, that everything else going on around him was lost to the world. He just _couldn't_. It wasn't that the book was necessarily boring, or anything offensive like that, but he just didn't want to sit still. _Probably more moody Veela shit,_ he thought, slightly peeved, as he wandered out of the office. Fortunately, he supposed, Granger had given her secretary a lunch break, so there was nobody to tell him off as he snuck out and about. He hadn't a clue where the meeting might be, so he wouldn't really be able to eavesdrop. Unless…

He'd met Queens on one other occasion, and that had been the raid of the manor immediately following the fall of Voldemort. Nicely put, the guy was a total prick. He'd wanted to pick off every single one of his belongings, including the more expensive ones, and then send Draco off to Azkaban in a straightjacket. Draco wanted nothing more to hex the guy.

_Yes_, Draco was more than a little suspicious as to why Queens would have to meet with Granger.

He could recognize the prat's voice from a mile away. Slowly, tentatively, he wandered through the corridors of the ministry, listening up against some of the thinner walls to see if he could catch wind of his awful, low voice. Finally, on the fifth corridor, not only did he hear Queens' low Irish accent, but also he could pick apart Granger's slightly haughty chirp.

_Jackpot!_

"_No, what you're asking me is to spy on him, and I'm not going to do that!_" she was almost shouting, her anger clearly audible even through the wall. Draco casually reclined against it, all the while his gears clicking into place. Queens must have been asking her to spy on him.

On one side, he filled immediately with angry dread, having previously hoped that all had been pardoned. Hadn't he shown, to as far an extent as he could muster, that he was worthy of not being tracked like a criminal?

On the other, well…Hermione was defending him. That had to count for something, right? That the Golden Gryffindor was standing up for him. Surely Queens would do something more dignified than start arguing with a witch as stubborn as she?

_Whoa. Hermione?! Whatever happened to _Granger_?_

"_Look, Hermione—_"

"_It's Ms Granger to you, Auror Queens_," she seethed. _Yikes_, thought Draco gleefully. She was pissed.

"_Ms Granger,_" began a calmer voice—probably Erikson—"_we wouldn't do this to you if it wasn't absolutely necessary. We know you spend quite a bit of time with Mr Malfoy, and we just—_"

"_Yeah, because you _asked _me to! Or did you, by any chance, forget the cursed binder you gave me?_"

Ouch. Even Draco had to admit, that sort of hurt. Was she really being forced to dealing with him through a curse? Was that really the only reason why she put up with him?

"_No, of course not; we're not daft!_" Ah. Queens, on the defensive, _again. _"_It's just, Ms Granger, even an optimist such as yourself must _surely _realize that men like Draco Malfoy never change. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater._"

In the silence that followed, Draco felt himself cool down, as if he was filled up to the brim with ice. _Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater._ Merlin, was that _really _what people thought of him? But…but surely Hermione didn't think that…did she?

Finally, he heard her speak up. "_If it'll shut you up…_" She hesitated. Draco could hear his own voice in his mind. _No, no, no, don't, no, don't…_ "_If it'll shut you up, fine. I'll…keep an eye on him._"

Sensing that this was concluding their meeting, he quickly retraced his steps back into the office. At least, he tried to. "Malfoy!" he heard Granger call behind him, the sound of her heels clicking on the floor bouncing off the walls. "Malfoy, where are you—what were you doing?"

"Nothing Death Eater-y, don't worry your frizzy, uptight locks," he hissed, storming into her office like a child.

Behind him, Hermione buried her face in her hands. Of _course _he'd been eavesdropping. Which meant… _Oh, Merlin, he thinks I'm just going to spy on him, _she groaned in her mind.

The truth was, she planned to do no such thing. Queens had been on her case the whole week, just now arranging a proper meeting. She was pissed beyond belief at his demands, and even more at his audacity. Still, she knew she could not afford him being suspicious of her. It was enough that her office was pretty much contaminated with Mad-Eyes. She did _not _need an Auror breathing down her neck. Especially one she would never be able to convince of the fact that, unbeknownst to everyone, Draco Malfoy _had _changed. He was noticeably different. For one, he could be civil to her. Or at least, he used to.

"No, no, Malfoy, I'd never—I wouldn't spy on you, I'm not that horrible," she told him, her pleading voice cutting into his sulking mind. "It's just, Queens has something against you, and I can't afford getting on his wrong side."

_Oh._ He supposed that was logical. After all, he knew that even _he _would volunteer to spy on himself if it meant his own security. Still, his defences remained up. "Whatever, Granger. I don't care. I'm flooing home."

As he approached the fireplace, Hermione was suddenly reminded of her deal with Ginny. "Wait!" she called after him. He stopped, but still refused to turn around. Tentatively, she approached him. "Are—are you going to the alumni ball?"

Curious now, he turned around to face her, nodding gravely but not saying anything. Despite her reassurances, he was still slightly pissed—at what, he hadn't the slightest idea.

"Are…you going _with_ anyone?" she added.

He bit his tongue to keep from bursting out laughing. She could _not _be asking him out on a date! "Not that I know of, Granger. Why?"

She shrugged, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. What was up with that awful, self-satisfied smirk of his? It was unsettling. "Well, I was wondering…I mean, I'm going stag, so I figured—"

"That you'd take the opportunity to invite me along so you could spy on me?" he blurted out meanly, before fully registering just what he was about to say. _Well. Too late now. All you can do is not sink deeper. _"That you'd do darling Queens a favour, since that Weasley prat isn't going to be able to make it as your fucking date? No, thank you, Granger." _Oh. Okay. Never mind, then._

All calmness and politeness vanished from her expression at an alarming speed, and her brows were furiously knitted as she crossed her arms angrily. "Okay, listen here, _Malfoy_; I'm _not _going to spy on you. Not at the ball, not anywhere else. If you want to be a prat and think I will, then that's your problem, but don't you _dare_ judge me on something you know _nothing _of!"

He took a defensive step back, not having expected her little outburst. Sure, one would expect him to be used to it by now—but no, the surprise kept on coming. _Okay, okay. Calm down. _"Well, either way, I'm going stag," he told her, more sharply than she'd intended.

Some of the fury across her face gave way to a sort of solemn regret, and she nodded. "Fine. I'll see you at the ball, then," she replied coldly, all but pushing him through the fireplace.

Just seconds before he disappeared into the green flames, she called out, "_And I'll want my book back, you selfish git!_"

* * *

_Hey, Gin:_

_I know you said you wanted the reply later, but I have my answer now. Not going with Malfoy. You can owl your brilliant little guest and tell him to meet me at the alumni ball. _

_All my love,_

_Mione_

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is what I call one step forwards, two step back. My goodness, Draco and Hermione, can't we all just get along?**

**Anyway, today I finally finished this chapter! It's pretty tightly packed, considering the low-ish word count, and for that I apologize. On another note, you might've noticed the change in the title. I decided it might be better to call it "The Scorpion Ring." I don't know. :) **

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**

**-TGBW**


	11. Long Live

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Real quick, though! I know reviewing can be a horrible drag, but it actually does help steer the story the way y'all would wish. Input is always appreciated! _**

**_Right, now back to our regular programming (;_**

* * *

_Long live the walls we crashed through_

_All the kingdom lights shine just for me and you_

_I was screaming long live all the magic we made_

_And bring on all the pretenders _

_One day we will be remembered_

-Taylor Swift, _Long Live_

The Great Hall was decorated with a splendor previously unbeknownst to any Hogwarts student. From each of the four walls hung the colorful banners of each of the four houses, their brightness radiating from each as if they were made of pure moonlight. Candle-lit crystal chandeliers hung low, illuminating the enchanted, star-spangled ceiling. Northern lights danced about it magically, though it was warm. It was a much welcome sight that certainly felt like an improvement from the last state in which the alumni had found it. Still, it was reminiscent of the lives lost during the final battle; Professor McGonagall had a group of trustworthy goblins construct a beautiful pearl and gold cousin of the famed Mirror of Erised: the Mirror of Animum, with reflective glass collected from the Forbidden Forest fabricated out of the purest of magic. It was tactfully placed opposing the Head Table in the Hall, and within it were silvery ghosts of the victims, for they, too, had been invited to join in the celebrations.

Hermione stepped into the Great Hall in a state of wonder, her eyes impatiently roaming about, trying desperately to take everything in. For a second time that evening, she felt the familiar pull in her heart, her throat tightening with the wonderful memories. Even the unhappy memories made her heart ache with longing, as both good and bad had molded her into whom she'd become. She suddenly felt eleven once more, so plaintive and small in comparison to the grandeur of the salon. Even in her newly-bought ball gown, which was indeed stunning—it was dark purple and reached to the floor; its bodice was tight, though the skirt flowed into a short trail decorated with silver swirls; its neckline was modest, though (to her discontentment) strapless; and she herself looked beautiful, though she would never say so herself, with minimal and natural makeup, and her hair magically tamed and pinned away from her face to shower down her back in dark ringlets—she felt greatly out of place. Suddenly she chastised herself for not having taken Ginny up on her offer of accompanying her and Harry, and instead choosing to show up alone—at least at the beginning.

She felt a sudden rush of emotion as she spotted Headmistress McGonagall, seated at the Head Table with perfect posture. Her former Transfigurations professor had always been dearest to her, and she could not contain her joy as she hiked up her skirts above her ankles, revealing delicate, medium-heeled silver sandals, and rushed forward, propelled by the sight of someone who now made her feel just as much at home as she had almost fifteen years ago.

"Professor McGonagall!" she cried out almost tearfully once she reached the table. The sight broke the old woman's composure as she broke into a heartwarming smile.

"Miss Granger!" she exclaimed as a reply, happily surprised. She made her way around the table to greet one of her (dare she say it) favorite students, pulling her into a cozy hug. Once they separated, she looked at Hermione, her eyebrows rising. "Oh, my, how you've grown, Miss Granger!" she remarked almost proudly, her hands rising to cover her gaping smile.

Hermione blushed with the compliment, smiling shyly at the lady. "Please, call me Hermione," she suggested, feeling that it was only proper now that they were both adult witches.

Headmistress McGonagall only smiled at her, as if she'd expected this all along. "Well, in that case, I must insist that you call me Minerva," she answered, linking her arm with Hermione's and walking down the Hall to the Mirror of Animum, which Hermione had been knowingly avoiding.

Hermione impulsively turned to the right, eyeing the Gryffindor dining table. She was pleased to see that it was still decorated with the gold and red trademark house colors, before remembering that this was still a school and there were other young Gryffindors to be seated in her old place. She still could remember that first day, when she'd been so excited to get sorted into Gryffindor. The memory of the warm reception from the Weasleys when she sat down, and from just about every other Gryffindor, was enough to make her smile as she trailed after McGonagall—er, Minerva. "How are the students these days?" she asked, deliberately leaving out having to say her former teacher's name.

"Oh, they are delightful!" Minerva remarked, fondly glancing over as well at the Gryffindor table. "Of course, mind you, you _were_ always my favorite—but if you tell anyone, I will deny it completely," she added with a mischievous wink. Hermione blushed and looked at the floor, stunned by the sudden compliment, though she did have to admit that she'd always had her suspicions. "I cannot _wait_ until we get some Gryffindor children here in Hogwarts; I would love to have an excuse to see you more often!"

A pang of guilt struck Hermione's gut as they approached the Mirror of Animum at the mention of visiting. The professor had asked them, time and time again, to visit her at Hogwarts. One year she'd even invited them to the newly reinstated Yule Ball as patrons, but unfortunately she had not been on good terms at all with Ron, or Harry (since he'd chosen Ron's side at the beginning of the divorce) and had had to decline. "You have really outdone yourself with the decorations, Minerva," she noted pleasantly, changing the topic of conversation.

"Oh, you have Mrs. Scamander to thank," she told her kindly, finally arriving by the mirror. "She was truly wonderful in helping with the décor, I must admit."

"Has she concluded the tour?" Hermione asked, surprised. Last she'd heard of the wispy blonde, Luna had been touring the globe in search for magical creatures. (Not that she could say she was honestly expecting her friend to find any, but if Luna was happy with her life, then so was she.)

"Mm, she is taking a vacation these days," McGonagall answered, turning to face Hermione full on. She studied the student for a second; trying to see traces of the young child she'd mentored almost fifteen years ago for the first time. The girl had become so beautiful, as the professor had always felt she would. Yet she maintained a bookish, intelligent aura about her, a certain air of professionalism laced with physical beauty. The headmistress, not that she would admit it again, had certainly had more than a little affection for her pupil. She'd always thought that Hermione reminded herself of her younger days, but now she could see that was not true. Hermione had so much potential that was still unlocked.

"And you, Hermione?" she asked, smiling warmly. "What are you doing these days?"

"I still work at the Ministry," Hermione answered eagerly, thankful for a distraction from the saddening mirror. "I am currently a Relations and Counseling for Magical Beings agent under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Being division," she stated proudly, raising her chin ever so slightly.

McGonagall cocked her head to the side, slightly confused. Hadn't she heard that the girl had wanted to promote the liberation of house elves? As if on cue, Hermione quickly added, "But I am working on many side projects as well, such as the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare"—McGonagall grinned—"and an upcoming book of mine, titled _One Half Wizard, Two Halves Magical_."

"Well, I am sure your book will be promoted in our curriculum here at Hogwarts, Hermione," McGonagall told her affectionately, then took her elbow and turned her towards the much-avoided mirror, with still a few minutes to go before the other alumni would arrive. "And if you ever need volunteers for your society, we are encouraging community service these years here for our older students and would be more than glad to give you a hand. Now," she gestured towards the mirror, "shall we say hello to our…mm…guests of honor?"

Hermione looked at the spirits within the large frame, all of whom seemed lifelike—except, of course, for the unnatural moon-like glow surrounding them. They were not only alumni, she realized soon, as she spotted Albus Dumbledore sitting at the reflection (or was it?) of the Head Table. Remus and Nymphadora Lupin were walking towards them from their side, and Hermione couldn't help but noticed how happy they seemed.

"Can they hear us, Minerva?" she asked hesitantly, restraining herself from reaching towards the mirror. It was all so real…They did, however, have that Patronus-like aura about them. Her gaze flickered to the side, where Fred Weasley had just made an appearance, following Remus and Tonks.

"Can we often hear our own reflection?" McGonagall replied cryptically, watching the ghosts with saddened eyes. It was very ancient magic that allowed this to happen, for the dead to visit them through this mirror, even for a brief time, as if it were nothing more than a painting. But it was richer than that, filled with their souls and their personalities, and though they chose not to haunt Hogwarts or the living, they were still able to return from the afterlife for this occasion, and any other similar to this one, should McGonagall send another invitation. "They can see us, but we cannot hear them, nor can they hear us."

"Actions speak louder than words," Hermione muttered, and McGonagall smiled from her side. She raised a hand and pressed it against the cool, liquid-like glass, yearning for the souls to be able to touch her. Then, without warning, Tonks returned the gesture, pressing her palm against Hermione's; and for a brief moment, she felt the warmth under her touch, until the ghost pulled away with a sad smile. Tears threatened to spill over her eyelids, and she blinked them back, not least because she wanted to enjoy the evening, seeing her deceased friends. She turned to the professor wordlessly, though the older witch could sense what she wished for, and together they made their way back towards the entrance.

Already, there was a low rumble in the hallway as alumni and their guests filed into the Great Hall, and greetings, gleeful shrieks, and hugs were exchanged. Hermione didn't have to look at McGonagall to tell that her eyes were probably glistening with tears at the fact that they'd all shown up for this. For her event. Instinctively, both women watched, the students started their way to their own house tables. It was so surreal, seeing former students so grown up, as if they'd taken an aging potion and had, in fact, been transfiguring beetles to buttons just the day before.

Hermione saw, shocked, that some couples that had walked inside had at first gone to their own respective houses, only to be pulled back together to figure out where to sit. She was amazed at how the house unity had been revived, even much improved, as members of all four houses intermingled with each other, leaving all bad blood behind—no pun intended, of course. Former Slytherins were strolling side by side with Ravenclaws, Gryffindors went hand in hand with Hufflepuffs…it was, she felt, exactly how Dumbledore would've wanted it.

At some distance away, Hermione saw a familiar head of glossy orange hair, accompanied by messy black hair, and, with an apologetic look at McGonagall, she rushed over to them. Harry had grown much taller, causing him to tower over his best friend, but his face had remained almost the same, with the obvious exception of some new worry lines. Ginny was wearing a turquoise dress with a cascading high-low skirt, a V-neck that dipped considerably low, and the top of the dress, tightly embracing her chest, was sparkly silver and ended in an empire waist, causing the skirt to fall gracefully over her 4-month belly; and dark teal flats. Her hair was curled so it fell in bright orange ringlets down her shoulders, and to Hermione she reminded her of one of those Disney princesses.

"Ginevra Molly Potter Weasley," she scolded playfully, almost tackling the redhead with a hug. "You look _beautiful_!"

Ginny pulled away, alarmed, before comprehending whom had hugged her so fiercely. Initially she blushed at the compliment, but then she overcame her shock at how lovely Hermione looked. "Mione! You're just a sight for sore eyes, you are! Merlin, all those blasted gits from our school years must be kicking their own arses by now, _wishing_ they had a witch as bloody heavenly as you!" She lowered her voice before adding, "Ron's not here, in case you were worried. And your date _owes _me one, alright?"

"By Godric, Hermione, you look amazing," added Harry, pulling her into a tight bear hug and kissing her lightly on the cheek. She affectionately ruffled his hair, before stepping back and seeing them together. They were most certainly the best couple to date in the wizarding world, something that never failed to escape the notice of the media.

She blushed at both of the powerful compliments, aware that she'd heard next to none when she was younger. "You both, you're too much," she laughed, before looking over her shoulder and spotting a dirty blonde making her distracted way to the mirror. Suddenly she remembered: the mirror! She pursed her lips before telling them, "Listen, you two, Minerva has a special surprise for everyone towards the back of the hall." She waited until they were looking over her as well, before continuing. "It is definitely worth checking out."

"Alright, we'll be right over," Ginny assured her, stepping towards her, her hand still linked with her husband's. "Have you seen him?"

"Who?" Hermione asked, honestly puzzled. Did she mean her date, or her ex-husband?

"Your idiot date, of course!" Ginny explained, exasperated. "Ron isn't coming, he's staying with George to hold up the fort."

"Oh, _him_," Hermione nodded, then shook her head. "No sign of him yet."

"If he doesn't show up, I'm going to go bribe his coach to hex his balls off!" the redhead swore angrily. She'd put a lot of stock into this man's trust; he better not disappoint!

"Don't worry," Hermione waved it off flippantly. "I'm sure he's just running a bit late."

"Alright, if you say so," Ginny shrugged, a murderous look still plastered across her face. Harry raised an eyebrow, and she immediately smiled again, causing Hermione to laugh a bit.

After a few short remarks, the couple was on their way towards the mirror, Hermione on their trails to talk to her other close friend.

Whom she couldn't see any longer. She leaned her head to the side, utterly confused, and nearly jumped out of her skin when a wispy voice said rather calmly, "What, exactly, are we looking for, Hermione?"

She turned, and sure enough, there stood Luna Scamander Lovegood, wearing a long, puffy ball gown that simmered in the light, splaying an array of colors on the ground around her. Her straw-like blonde hair, shortened to a striking pixie cut, was decorated with a large glittery bow, and from her ears hung what Hermione could only distinguish as miniature orange Pygmy Puffs. Next to her stood Rolf Scamander, wearing a dark brown suit and an orangish-yellowish tie.

Hermione's face broke into a smile, glad to see that, despite her distance and her age, Luna remained as loveably airy as always. "Good Merlin, Luna, you look astounding," she gushed, hugging Luna, and she felt appalled when the blonde pulled away quickly.

"Hermione, I'd say you look beautiful but I am afraid if I have been attacked by Cinating Bellers, and certainly do not wish to contaminate you," she told her passively, as if she was merely commenting on the weather. Hermione bit her tongue to suppress a grin, and Luna explained, "They have a nasty habit of clouding one's eyes, making everything appear lovelier. Surely you've heard of them?"

Hermione smiled, having understood the compliment beneath all the unnecessary information. She shook her head, saying, "No, I'm afraid I have not."

"It's just as well," said Luna distractedly, turning to her husband and shrugging. "They reside mostly in the city of Jakarta, and we have only recently discovered them." She turned again towards Hermione and smiled, though her eyes remained hazy. "But you have other things on your mind now. Come, Rolf, I want to show you the mirror I told you about." She took Rolf's arm and guided him away, telling him something about Cinating Bellers.

With a smile, she walked back towards the head table, joining McGonagall once more. They stood for a few moments talking, waiting for the remainder of the students to find seats so the evening could begin properly.

"Go sit down, Miss Granger," McGonagall said, sounding mockingly stern. "I am expecting the 1997 valedictorian to come up and make a speech."

"I'd best get going, then, shouldn't I?" Hermione teased, moving to stand next to the headmistress at the head table.

"_Sonorus_," called McGonagall after clearing her throat. Her voice, newly amplified, resonated through the hall as she spoke. "Good evening, former students, dearest alumni, and most welcome guests. It is my utmost pleasure and my happiest dream to see you all before me, so grown and mature under the stern hand of time—though, I daresay, not as stern as my hand." She waited until the laughter died away before carrying on with her speech. "Never in my wildest imagination did I picture such a pleasant scene, so many of you coming back to what I certainly do hope became your second home. Though the war and the years have distanced us from one another, we are all aware of the undeniable truth that _Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home._ You have shared laughter, tears, test answers—yes, I knew about that," she said somewhat firmly, and nervous laughter erupted somewhere by the Gryffindor table. "Whether it be planting dungbombs under pillows, playing exploding snap under an amateur blanket fort late at night in the dormitories, or testing colorful Every Flavour Beans for edible tastes, you have all bonded, and I must say it has been a great privilege to witness you all as young adults and, now, as proud," she glanced at the Slytherin table, "brave," the Gryffindor table, "wise," the Ravenclaw table, "and strong," Hufflepuff table, "adults ready to take on the world that has awaited to appreciate you." She took a moment to wipe away some stray tears falling down her cheeks before adding finally, "And now, without further delay, we have our lovely valedictorian, Miss Hermione Jean Granger, to give us an undoubtedly inspiring speech."

It stunned both witches the amount of time they had to wait for the thundering applause to diminish.

Finally, at long last, it was Hermione's turn to speak, and she got up with slightly trembling hands to address her former classmates, some of whom she'd never gotten a chance to speak with before, some of whom she'd never chosen to speak with before, and a select few she would've given her right arm for.

"Seven years," she began, "two months, and thirteen days. That is how long I've been given to come up with a speech for this evening, and right at this moment, I stand before you, completely unprepared and relying entirely on improvisation. I made the mistake, a long time ago, to believe that I knew you all. That I knew how you were and could predict what you'd become. Now, however, standing here once more, all of us reunited, as we have not been for a very long time, there are no words to describe the understatement I have just relayed to you all. We were mere children, forced to fight a battle that broke many fully grown wizards and witches. The war has changed us permanently, and I can only hope that it has been for the better.

"You know, I hear wonderful things these days, about how my former classmates have become successful in the world. Some of you, I heard, came back and completed your year. Some of you moved on to greater things almost immediately; the fact remains that we have all changed. Foes have become friends; opponents have united. If you hesitate to believe me, how many of you are sitting with _only_ your housemates?" There was indistinct murmuring now in the Great Hall, affirming Hermione's suspicions. "I wish I had the privilege to say that I knew you all before you became wonderful, influential people, but it seems that I hardly knew any of you at all, as you are all so full of surprises. We are the antitheses of normal witches and wizards…but who's to say what is normal?

"Influential, wonderful, reunited. Broken, victorious, courageous. Proud, strong, wise. There are so many words to describe us," she said animatedly, her voice rising above their low cheers. "We are fighters! We are unforgettable! We are invincible! We," she shouted, raising her goblet of elf champagne, "are the class of 1998!"

Tears sprang in her eyes with the deafening applause, as every single alumni and guest in the Great Hall jumped to their feet, cheering, crying, clapping. She let out a choked laugh as Harry and Ginny ran up to the Head Table and enveloped her in a life-threatening hug, burying their own tear-streaked faces into her perfumed neck.

* * *

Off to the side, she was vaguely aware of a crowd of three people, only one of whom looked remotely happy to be there, entering the Great Hall. Theodore Nott was the first to notice them, as he turned around, bringing in his wife—Daphne Greengrass—along to greet their old housemates.

"Malfoy, Zabini, Zabini," he called out joyously, as Daphne quickly dabbed at her eyes with her dainty silver handkerchief. She was touched beyond belief by Hermione's speech, and was very glad she'd decided to attend as per McGonagall's invitation. "You've just missed Granger's speech; it was bloody brilliant, it was, especially for a Gryffindor!"

Pansy looked over at Daphne, who was sniffling unashamedly—something she frowned upon, as it was so inappropriate for a pureblood wife to be so openly emotional, and a wreck at that, in a sophisticated celebration—and fought her instinct of wrinkling her nose, choosing instead to put a hand, delicately, on her shoulder, and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek which was promptly reciprocated. Meanwhile, the men were laughing, shaking each other's hands and slapping each other heartily on the back.

"You look darling," Pansy nodded at Daphne's dress. Her own was simple but elegant: shiny black material that simmered under the right lighting, hugging her all the way to her navel, where it flowed around her legs. It was strapless, adorned with emerald details on her breast area. Her dark, long wavy hair was held up in an elegant bun, with some loose strands hanging attractively on either side of her face, which was covered with exquisite makeup—red lipstick, dark eye shadow and mascara—and no longer resembled a pug…that much. She knew she looked dashing, but could not comment on it. Instead, she chose to compliment Daphne, who did look pretty in light blue robes, her blonde hair straightened down her shoulders.

"And _you_, dear Salazar, you look striking!" Daphne replied, eyeing her dress with a touch of envy. "Malkins?"

Pansy let out a shrill laugh, calling the attention of the three men. "Oh, Merlin, no! I haven't been there since graduation, not if I can avoid it. No, this dress was tailored by faeries."

"How lovely," murmured Daphne, drawn to the magic of the enchanted dress.

Beside them stood the three men, talking and doing whatever catching up was necessary. Theo and the other two always did keep in touch, yet they still had some matters to discuss. Not five minutes into the conversation, a tall, leggy, curvy blonde witch made her way towards the Slytherin crowd. None of the other witches and wizards present could recognize her, as she'd gone to Beauxbatons. She wore a dark green, tight, short, glittery dress with a plunging V-neck. Her long, straight hair was loose down her back, much like Daphne's, but it somehow only made her look more desirable. She wore no necklace to distract from her obvious cleavage, and her earrings were small Peridot studs with dangling diamond drops.

She approached Draco and put a hand on his arm, leaning over on her chunky silver heels—wearing the Slytherin colors, as per her date's request—and gave him an open-mouthed kiss. He slid his arm around her waist, the back of which was slightly exposed due to the backless dress of hers. "Draco," she said silkily, in a seductive low voice with a trace of a French accent. "Sorry I've arrived late, I misread the invitation."

"Nonetheless, I'm glad you could find your way," Draco replied, rubbing circles on her back with his thumb. He turned to the other two men, who were gaping quite obviously at his date, and smirked. "Gentlemen, this is Rhiannon, my lovely guest for this evening."

"Enchantè," she told them, holding out a smooth, pale hand towards them. Hesitantly, as if afraid that they might break her, Theo and Blaise took turns holding her hand and gently kissing her knuckles. Blaise spent more than necessary bowed before her, undoubtedly trying to sneak a look down her dress. Pansy pointedly turned away from her husband and the slag, instead choosing to start up another dull conversation with Daphne. She was so done with the jealous, bitchy personality.

"Is she the one you're shagging now?" asked Blaise eagerly, unable to take his eyes off her as she swayed her hips, walking towards the women to introduce herself. "She's…something."

"Sure is," said Draco carelessly, picking off elf champagne from a tray that had been hovering by them for quite some time. He drained it all in one go and replaced it on the platter. "But it's tonight, and then she goes. The committed type, she is."

Theo raised an eyebrow at this exchange; he knew Draco had become something of a playboy since the war, but he had no idea to what extent. "Surely you will settle down someday?"

Blaise bit his tongue to keep from grinning; hadn't Draco told Theo the newest development of his? "Uh, I have a feeling you both do have a _lot_ to catch up on," he hinted, staring at Draco with a hint of amusement in his eyes. Draco rolled his eyes and began to tell Theo everything that had happened since June 2, including Hermione, his birthday…just everything.

"_Sixty a year_?" demanded Theo in obviously envious disbelief. Of course, that would be the only part he hung on to from their entire exchange.

Draco rolled his eyes bemusedly. "Yes, Nott, sixty. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said somewhat distractedly, his eyes having caught sight of another witch—one he could use if need be, to get rid of the overly attached bint—that he could talk up. He pushed his way through the crowd, not bothering to say hello to anyone. He still maintained somewhat of a negative reputation because of his father and his aunt, but he refused to renounce the Malfoy name like his mother had, and instead sauntered proudly to the witch that caught his eye. She was currently looking very uncomfortable, talking to a tall, fitted, probably Quidditch playing bloke. It seemed almost as if she were trying to get away from him.

Draco paused a few ways away, captivated by her. Whereas Rhiannon's dress made her look elegantly slutty, this dress was full on classy, really doing justice to her milky white shoulders. Her dark hair was curled down her back—well, some of it—and her body shook with awkward laughter. Finally he recognized the undeserving wizard, Cormac McLaggen, and decided this would be a good enough excuse to approach them.

"McLaggen, it's been so long," he drawled, not exactly in a friendly manner, as he held out his stretched hand. Cormac, Draco could now see, had his arm snaked around the witch's waist—how the blazes had he missed this?—and she almost slid off it eagerly when he withdrew it to shake Draco's. He avoided looking at the witch for a bit, chatting him up, until he felt her poke him impatiently. He smirked inwardly—_They are so impatient nowadays._ Just as he turned, he realized he'd been completely mistaken. It was not at all some entrancing witch he'd never met before. Quite the contrary, he knew her very well.

"Her—Hermione Granger?"

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, Cormac is still as much of a prat as he was in the books. Was he who you were expecting to be Hermione's date to the ball? Hope you weren't disappointed, anyhow!**

**Just by the way, I finished this October 1****st****. Way before starting chapter 6, but that's because this was one of the more fun chapters to write! The ball isn't over, though! Stay tuned for chapter 11 when we get the real dancing going on (: **

**Please Read and Review!**

**Love,**

**TGBW**


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